GabeUnchained

Happy Mothers Day...to Judith

2011-05-07T10:01:00.000-07:00

A blog post as a Mother's Day gift? Well, it's cheaper than roses or a visit to the All-U-Can-Eat breakfast buffet, and this is a recession-y era. Plus, my mom likes it when I make stuff for her, and I'm all out of construction paper and I can't find my special scissors.

In any case, my mom, Judith, once told me a story her mother told her. When my grandma was in the maternity ward at a Grass Valley, California hospital c. 1938, nursing her new daughter, the mother in the bed next to her asked what her baby's name was. "Judith," was 19-year-old Margret's reply. "Judith?" said the other young woman, "why did you name your baby after the man who killed Our Lord?"

Poor Margaret started sobbing, and as a result my two aunts were named the much-less-Jewish sounding (but still lovely) Jane and Linda. But how good was that rural anti-Semite's Bible scholarship?

Like most folks, not so good. Turns out Judith isn't a derivative of Judas (which really just means "the Jew") or even technically a biblical name. It comes from a Deuterocanonical (meaning Old Testament books that are left out of the Jewish Torah but are in the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Old Testaments) story, the Book of Judith.

Judith Slaying Holofernes 1612-1613, Artemesia Gentileschi. Gentileschi was raped by landscape artist and serial rapist Agostino Tassi not long before she painted this, which explains a lot. Nice blood spurts!

Judith was a beautiful widow (her husband Menasses died of heat stroke harvesting barley) who lived during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar II, king of the Assyrians (around 600 BC). Ol' Nebbie goes on a power trip and sends his general Holofenes with 182,000 soldiers to conquer Canaan. He gets held up outside the fortress-city of Bethulia (modern scholars think this was either made up, as there was no town called "Bethulia," which explains why this story is left out of Jewish and Protestant scriptures, or that it's the modern-day town of Jenin) that the Israelites are defending, which pisses him off to no end. "Who are these people?" howls Holofenes. "we will tread them under foot, and their mountains shall be drunken with their blood!" Nice guy.
Anyway, as preparations on both sides are being made for battle, Judith decides she will save her people. She gets all dolled up and heads to the Assyrian lines and tells them she is fleeing from the Israelites and wants to help them defeat these troublesome Jews. Holofenes, who is an asshole but not very bright, falls for her. After she hangs around the camp for a few days, he invites her to feast with him, and he gets good and drunk on wine and passes out. His entourage leaves his tent, leaving him alone with Judith, who finds his scimitar and saws his head off with it. Nice lady. She gives the head to her maid, who hides it a bag of meat, and they stroll out of the camp, probably whistling casually. "See ya later, fellas! Can't stay! Thanks for the wine."

And the next day, in a scene that probably won't ever appear in a Mel Gibson movie, the Jewish armies storm the leaderless Assyrian's camp as the terror-stricken soldiers run away into the hills. The Jews are left alone after that, and Judith lives happily ever after, a revered woman. She dies at the age of 105 and is entombed near Bethulia with her husband.

Did my grandma know the story of Judith? I'm guessing no, but knowing my mom, Margaret couldn't have picked a more appropriate name. She's beautiful, crafty, has a maid, is good with knives and doesn't mind taking risks. She's also passionate about political causes, though I think she prefers to write checks, as blood stains are so hard to get out of silk, even with modern dry-cleaning techniques.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you.

Maria Botchkareva and the Women's Battalion of Death

2011-01-17T19:13:00.000-08:00

Nineteen-seventeen was a momentous year in Russian history. The events that unfolded during this time permanently altered almost every institution of Russian society. There were scores of characters in this drama, many of which are still familiar today. However, one has been forgotten, a footnote of a person who was still remarkable and deserves notice. Maria Botchkareva was a woman who was motivated by a simple love of country, a woman who fought side by side with men in the trenches of World War 1, and tried to save the only world she knew.
However, Botchkareva was unsuccessful. This tough- as- nails peasant woman could defeat death and poverty, but she could not save Russia from a revolution that would sweep away everything she knew.

Women's Battalion of Death Soldiers receive blessings before being sent into battle, 1917.

The Life of Maria Botchkareva

Maria Frolkov was born in the month of July 1889 into a family of impoverished Russian peasants. Her father was an alcoholic, abusive ex- soldier, and her mother was from a peasant family from the northern part of Russia. The extreme poverty forced her family to move to the town of Tomsk, in the Siberian wastelands. School was not an option for Siberian peasant girls in the 1890’s, and at the age of eight, Maria went to work in a Jewish grocery.

At the age of 15, Maria went to work for two brothers, the Lazovs, stationed in the area during the Russo-Japanese war. A resulting affair with one of the brothers, Vasily, left Maria alone and doubtlessly feeling jaded towards men and officers alike.

The following year, Maria Frolkov met and married Anavasi Botchkareva, a wandering laborer. Botchkareva, predictably, turned out to be an abusive alcoholic. His almost constant beatings of her prompted Maria to run away, further into Siberia.

Separated from her family by hundreds of miles of frozen wasteland, Maria Botchkareva became remarkably self- reliant for a woman of her times. She worked a series of odd jobs, including working as a maid, a laundress, and a construction worker. Working for an asphalt contractor, her determination and skill soon made her an assistant foreman, giving her experience commanding groups of men, as well as handling sexist assumptions that her sex limited her ability to perform certain tasks. Botchkareva simply ignored these assumptions, excelling (if her own accounts are to be believed) at any task she was given.

When Botchkareva turned 21, she met and entered a common law

marriage with a political and criminal refugee named Yakov Buk. The relationship proceeded well, and Botchkareva writes of this time in her life fondly. Things changed in 1913, when the authorities exiled Buk even further into Siberia for aiding a fleeing felon.

Buk grew sullen and depressed in the remote village, gambling and drinking with his fellow exiles. After several months, Buk emulated the other men in Botchkareva’s life by beating her on a regular basis. The end came when he tried to hang her for perceived infidelity- Botchkareva escaped and returned to Tomsk, where she stayed with her mother and younger sister. It was at this time that Botchkareva first heard voices, telling her to “go to war to help save thy country.”1 Although she had not previously shown any love or loyalty for the Tsar or Mother Russia, Botchkareva must have been caught up in the “war fever” of the early part of the war as millions of others across Europe. After some soul searching, she decided that she could “go to war and fight till death, or, if God preserved me, till the coming of peace.”2

Full of this resolve, Botchkareva strode into the headquarters of the 25th reserve battalion in Tomsk and tried to enlist. After much hilarity and merriment, she was sent home after being told that women were not allowed to serve, but with a promise that the Tsar would be petitioned for a deferment in her case. Shortly afterwards, the request was granted, and Maria Botchkareva was inducted into the Tsar’s army as a common soldier in November 1914.
Botchkareva found the soldier’s life and training tough, but agreeable. She spent her first days and weeks fighting off the gropings and advances from her fellow soldiers, but as she grew more

experienced and capable, she won the respect and confidence of the men with which she trained. Accepting her as one of their own, Botchkareva’s comrades rewarded her with the feminine version of Yakov Buk’s nickname, “Yashka.”

In April 1915, Yashka was sent to the front, joining the 28th Polotsk regiment. Her first taste of combat saw her performing well, participating in an ill- fated attack that saw many men in her unit killed or wounded. During the night, Yashka crept out into no- man’s land and dragged over 50 wounded men to safety before she was herself wounded in the leg.

After two months recuperating in Kiev, Botchkareva returned to her company, just in time to join in another disastrous attack. Wounded again, Yashka preformed with such valor that her commander recommended her for the Cross of St. George, one of imperial Russia’s greatest honors. Because of her sex, Botchkareva’s award was downgraded to a “medal of the second degree,” a much less distinctive honor. However, she was promot

ed to corporal, making her a leader of other soldiers.

The war dragged on. Yashka’s memoirs recount tales of failed attacks, death, and long nights in muddy trenches and observation posts. In March 1916, Corporal Botchkareva was wounded in the leg, and spent over two months recovering. She returned to her regiment in early June, in time to take part in another abortive attack. This time, Yashka was hit in the lower spine with a shell fragment. Paralyzed for three months, she miraculously recovered and returned to the front in December of 1916. She was warmly greeted by her comrades, presented with another medal, and promoted to the rank of senior non-commissioned officer.

By this point in the war, Yashka was a seasoned veteran, having participated in many attacks, as well as spending countless days and nights in the multiple horrors of war in the trenches. “I must have participated in at least 100 excursions into no- man’s land,”3 she wrote afte

r the war, proving that she had seen as much combat as any male soldier. These forays into no- man’s land were deadly affairs- the slightest misstep or sound could bring instant death from shells or machine- gun fire. Yashka was an experienced soldier, and could handle the psychological stresses as well as any man.

By January of 1917, Russia’s people and Army had had enough. The worn- out Russians reacted to the news of the Tsar’s abdication with great enthusiasm; “The miracle had happened! Tsarism, which enslaved us and thrived on the blood and marrow of the toiler, had fallen.”4 Yashka was soon disillusioned, however. She mistakenly believed that the abdication of the Tsar would free up the Russian army to fight more effectively and drive the Germans out. The revolution’s effect on the army was to disable it with democracy. The new War Minister, Aleksandr Kerenskii, introduced ‘rule by committee’ to the Army. Every unit elected a committee from the ranks, which was responsible for approving every order given by officers. This order, combined with the lack of supplies, reduced morale in the Russian Army to almost nothing.5 The inactivity and low morale in Yashka’s unit prompted her to leave for Petrograd in March to see what she could do to help matters.

In Petrograd, Yashka met with MV Rodzianko, the president of Russia’s legislature, General

Aleksei Brusilov, the Army’s commander in chief, and Minister of War Aleksandr Kerenskii and asked permission to form a Shock Battalion composed entirely of women. This was a long shot for Botchkareva; she “did not expect to be taken seriously.”6 Much to her surprise, the idea was approved, and on May 21st, 1917, she appeared at the Mariynski theatre and made an emotional appeal for volunteers:

“Men and women citizens!” I heard my voice say. Our mother is perishing. Our mother is Russia. I want to help save her. I want women whose hearts are crystal, whose souls are pure, whose impulses are lofty. With such women setting an example of self-sacrifice, you men will realize your duty in this grave hour!”

Within a few days, almost 2,000 women of all different strata of society signed up to fight with Botchkareva’s Battalion of Death.

The Women’s Battalion of Death

By the end of May 1917, almost 2,000 had volunteered to serve their country under arms. Botchkareva secured a training area, instructors and equipment, and marched her troops to the barber to have their hair shorn in regulation manner. The training proceeded for almost four weeks, training that was the same as the training regimen for male soldiers.
Botchkareva was a strict disciplinarian. Soldiers were dismissed for slight infractions, such as excessive giggling, or “other frivolities.”7 When 1,500 of the women demanded the formation of a soldier’s committee, Botchkareva sent them away. During an attack, when Botchkareva discovered one of her soldiers and a male soldier from another unit making love, she responded by stabbing the hapless woman with her bayonet. Later in the War, she lamented the end of capital punishment: “in the old days…it would have been sufficient to execute a couple of them to transform [a mob of unruly soldiers] into respectable and obedient human beings.”8 Yashka had a precise vision of what she wanted from her soldiers, and was very successful at keeping them disciplined, motivated, and fighting.

After the 300 women had received their hasty training, the authorities presented the unit with their banners and icons, traditional accoutrements of Russian military units. On June 24th, the Battalion received field equipment and departed for the front, at Moldocheno, to join the 10th Army.

The situation at the front was desperate. Mobs of unruly soldiers roamed the rear areas, harassing officers and Botchkareva’s soldiers alike. The soldier’s committees would vote on every order given them by their superiors, making offensive operations impossible. When the time came for Yashka’s battalion to attack on July 8th, their initial successes were squandered when the 9th Corps refused to move up and consolidate their gains.

Difficulties aside, the Battalion performed admirably in combat, capturing three lines of trenches and almost two thousand prisoners. But the expected result- the women’s bravery spurring the men into fighting, did not materialize. The Battalion retreated, bloodied and decimated, with its leader sent to the hospital with shell shock.

By late fall, the Army had collapsed. The women soldiers stayed loyal to the interim government to the very end, some of them defending the Winter Palace in Petrograd against the Bolsheviks. This loyalty sparked resentment, and other soldiers attacked the women when news of the collapse of the Kerenskii regime reached the front, lynching the ones that did not escape. Botchkareva sent the remaining soldiers home after securing civilian clothes for them.

Escape and Return

After Red October, Botchkareva was no longer a hero in Russia. The Bolsheviks hunted her down, captured her, and released her only after Lenin and Trotsky personally talked to her and determined that she was too uneducated to be a political threat to the new state. She returned to her parent’s house in Tomsk, but conditions there were very bad. On May 1st, 1918, Botchkareva was able to leave for the United States.

In the United States, Botchkareva met with government officials, and had an operation to remove the shell fragment from her spine. She also met with President Wilson, begging him for aid to fight the Bolsheviks. After her stay in the U.S., Yashka returned to Russia to raise a peasant army to fight the communists.

Her attempts to raise an army were fruitless, and she spent most of 1918 trying to get the provisional government of Northern Russia to help raise another battalion. (This time of men- Botchkareva gave up on women fighters after the October revolution, declaring, “I do not want to be associated with women! I do not trust them!”9) The only result of her pleas was to be stripped of her uniform by the commander of the North Russian Army, Vladimir Marushevskii, since “the summoning of women for military duties, which are not appropriate for their sex, would be a heavy reproach and a disgraceful stain on the whole population of the northern region.”10 The unsuitability of women fighters knew no political boundaries in revolutionary Russia.

This is the last official record of Botchkareva. She disappeared, probably captured by Bolsheviks and put away into the new GULAG system or summarily shot. Interest in her waned as Europe and the world lost interest in World War 1 and found new heroes.

Maria Botchkareva was a curious mixture of ignorance and wisdom, femininity and asexuality, an amalgam of 19th century beliefs and 20th century pragmatism. She saw things in terms of right and wrong; either you wanted the Germans out of mother Russia, or you were a traitor. Either you wanted traditional discipline in her battalion, or you were a malcontent. Every problem she faced had but one solution.

Botchkareva’s example failed to rally the Army because they were too tired, too bitter, too hungry to fight any more. Leadership by committee can work, with properly motivated troops. Committees led the early Red Army, as they did the various militias in Spain during its civil war. Even a fierce warrior, a golden- tongued orator and a devoted servant of her Motherland as Yashka could not help a Nineteenth century power win a Twentieth century war.

Mad Tea Party: Just a Bad Dream?

2010-11-03T07:52:00.000-07:00

So it's Wednesday morning, and I must say, I feel elated by the election results, and it's not just the 3 cups of meth-strength coffee from Mama's Royal Cafe. It's the feeling I have that the media's narrative has no clothes, that the Tea Party movement isn't really a movement, but just the same extreme-right voters being more vocal than usual, and that California is much more liberal than I thought it was--and since California is a trend-setter, the rest of the country will follow...eventually.

First, the media narrative. That the GOP would win back a majority in the House was no big mystery--it's happened to the last two presidents. But to say it was a mandate from some kind of new movement is absurd. First, not that many so-called Tea Party candidates won seats--of the 240-plus GOP House victories, over 200 were by seasoned, old-school GOP politicians, many of whom were spouting Tea Party rhetoric when Glenn Beck was still a pot-smoking, kazoo-blowing FM morning-drive shock jock. And the epic failures of Tea Partiers in Alaska, Nevada and Delaware ("I'm not a witch!") show that just because you're not a career politician doesn't mean you're automatically qualified for the job of being...a career politician.

But that hasn't stopped the media from using all its pre-written headlines this morning anyway. "Mandate," "Tsunami" and "housecleaning" were all over-used terms, I'm sure. But is it any of those things? Not really. Sure, it was a big upset, the biggest since 1948, but, in case you haven't noticed, there's a lot of big, crazy stuff happening in the world these days.

Even if the Tea Party has taken over, what does that mean? I'm going to say it means nothing. A New York Times poll looked at 800 or so people who described themselves as Tea Partiers, and it turns out they are mostly "Republican, white, male, married and older than 45." Hm. Other polls describe them as higher income, well-educated and mostly living in the suburbs. The NYT poll extrapolated that 18 percent of the American public identify with this movement. Sounds like it's the same 20-30 percent of the electorate that has always been far-right conservative. Just because they skip an election or two doesn't mean they disappear.

When you examine what these people are saying and what they want, it's exactly the same as what they wanted in 1980 when they elected Reagan to office. Or in 1994 when they brought in the first GOP majority to Congress in 40 years. Less taxes, less spending, strong military, stop abortion, keep prayer in schools, yadda, yadda, yadda. In fact, as examined in a recent New Yorker story, Glenn Beck reccomends they read books favored by the John Birch society--how's that for cutting edge? They're just slightly more pissed off then they were in the '80s. Putting a new symbol (albeit a very clever one, gotta hand them that one) doesn't make it a "new movement." It's the Reagan Revolution, cleverly re-enacted for 2010.* Eventually, the years will shrink their numbers--this next decade will be their last time to flex their impressive, world-changing political muscle. Enjoy it, guys!

Also, after 22 years of being disappointed by California politics, I saw my home state swing further to the left then ever. It'd be enough for a lefty S.F. Mayor (and former Redwood HS alum!) like Gavin Newsom to be elected Lt. Governor (how did he do that? Just ask Meg--spending more money isn't enough on its own), but when ex Oakland Mayor Jerry Brown gets elected governor it kind of blows my mind. Didn't anybody south of Fresno vote? And if that wasn't enough, Kamela Harris became AG? Did you Tea Partiers even look at your ballots? She's too liberal for me! Richard Simmons would put more people on death row. Not only that, but prop 23--which would effectively kill AB32, California's climate-change legislation--was kicked to the curb by these weird, newly left-leaning California voters. Don't they know Fox News is on 24/7?

As for Prop 19 failing, I think it's okay for two reasons. One, I don't really like to smoke weed. I'm low-functioning and lazy enough as it is. And two, it shows the hypocrisy of the so-called Tea Party. If this movement really was Libertarian (Rand Paul excepted here, and I can't wait to see what the GOP does when he introduces legislation to immediately pull all US troops out of foreign bases everywhere, overnight), pot would have been legal back in the '80s. Those TP guys get all weepy at rallies about "freedom," so how could they be opposed to responsible adults hittin' the bong while they sit on the couch and watch "Married with Children" re-runs? What's more American than that? A real Libertarian movement would give both parties hives, but the TP isn't that and never will be. And thank God for that--a quick look at Libertarian thinkers and philosophy shows the movement sprung right out of the same well of delusional 19th-Century intellectual quackery as Marxism, Eugenics and Phrenology.

I'm not even that bothered by the Democrats losing the House. I recognize the party is not so good at leading, as it's a bigger tent than the GOP, with a confusing, complex message. I think a Congress with a fairly thin majority (and a Dem-controlled Senate) will be forced to compromise with the president if it wants to get anything done. And these new Congresspeople will need to show their constituents they did something for two years other than attempt to block Democratic legislation and moan about tyranny.

I--and I don't think I'm alone--want compromise with the GOP. This country is split pretty much 50/50, and neither side is right about every problem. I will never see eye-to-eye on most issues with Glenn Beck or Sarah Palin (I hope!), but that shouldn't matter. If your motorcycle won't start, you need to fix it the quickest, cheapest, easiest way, even if you have to use a tool you despise. Somewhere in between, there is truth. It's not flashy or glamorous, but it's right, and it will work.

*And I have no problem with historical re-enactment; even though I'm a Jew, Tea Party SS stormtrooper Rich Lott's hobby doesn't offend me in the least. I think it's kind of cool, as I love WWII history and the Waffen (combat arm) SS had the best uniforms, leadership, tactics and equipment of any military of that era (and sure, they were brutal and murderous towards subjugated civilians when they had the chance, but mostly they were too busy losing the war for that), although I wonder why he wants to play the losers.

Favorite Bikes: My 1977 R100/7/S

2010-04-08T10:48:00.000-07:00

Photo: Kenyon Wills

A post on the kick-ass Bike Exif Blog brought back memories of my favorite bike: a 1977 BMW R100/7 I bought from some guy in San Francisco in 1992. It was custom-painted like the S version, with smoke-grey paint and a bikini fairing, and it also sported the bigger "S" heads and 40mm Bing carbs. The bike turned out to be kind of a lemon: almost imideatly it started smoking and exhibiting hard-start symptoms. That led to my discovery of Dave Gardner's Recommended Service (probably the best independent BMW mechanic anywhere, call him at 415/822-2041), and Dave's discovery of several thousand dollars in my checking account, which he used to do a masterful rebuild of my motor.

It was a great bike. Under 500 pounds, with about 60 horsepower at the wheel, purpose-built for long trips and carrying a passenger. It was also stable in turns and had great throttle response. The bike taught me how to ride, and after a couple of seasons of roadracing (not the Beemer!), I could keep up with guys on much faster, lighter bikes.

The R100 held up through four years and about 70,000 miles of abuse. I modded it with rearsets, lower bars, a dual front-disc conversion, and a succession of shark-tooth-painted fairings, art courtesy of artist friend Francis Mcilveen. I learned to not be intimidated by routine maintenance and simple bolt-on repairs. I could do a valve adjustment, change the clutch flywheel (I swapped mine for one lightened by the owner of Rennsport, a Moto Guzzi expert), even pull the cylinder heads for service.

My love affair with BMW Twins ended one July Sunday, up on Mines Road, headed up Mt. Hamilton. I was at maximum lean when I hit a bump midcorner. The bike was levered up on the right cylinder head, and when the rear tire regained traction, we high-sided. I broke my leg, got a helicopter ride to San Jose, and the old Beemer was sold for parts.

I still have great memories of leading modern sportbikes up a twisty road, cylinder heads sparking, the roar of the flat-Twin behind me. If you want a '70s superbike, a good-running BMW Twin is hard to beat.

The First Squid of Spring

2010-02-28T21:04:00.000-08:00

This column first appeared in the March, 2006 CityBike magazine.

For about ten years now, I’ve been noticing my first squid of the season.

I’ll never forget the first time. It was an unseasonably warm day in late March or maybe early April, and I was standing in front of Alice’s with a friend of mine when three guys go whizzing past us on Highway 35. They were on late-model Japanese sportbikes, and one of them was wearing a half helmet, shorts and a tank-top. He saw us staring at him and made a weird, joyous sort of shriek.

I turned to my buddy and shrugged. I remember thinking, “well, it must be spring.” For the previous five months, I hadn’t seen any motorcyclists clad in anything less revealing than a rainsuit and full-face helmet. I thought about what kind of idiot would ride a high-performance bike in such flimsy protective clothing.

After a few more minutes of speculating on the roots of squidliness, we suited up and headed north on 35. As we rounded a turn not a mile up the road, we saw our friend in the dirt being tended to by some paramedics. His motorcycle was smashed up, lying on its side, but Mr. Squid could care less, as he was so badly torn up with road rash that his leg looked like an extra helping of my high school cafeteria’s sloppy joes.

“Yiiiiiiii!” he said in a piercing shriek. Or maybe it was “Arrrrrgh!” Or perhaps, “Ahhh! It hurts! It hurts! It hurts!” It was a long time ago. I’ll bet he remembers that day a lot better than I do.

I wouldn’t say I felt a great deal of satisfaction seeing a fellow motorcyclist in so much pain. But now I always notice when I see the first guy on a motorcycle or scooter in shorts in a new year.

I saw him just a few days ago this year, one of the earliest sightings I can remember. I think this is a good sign, like the groundhog seeing his shadow, or not seeing it, or whatever it is. He was at the corner of 24th and Castro on a Vespa ET4. He was wearing shorts and a half helmet. I’m happy to report that I did not see the Vespa a few minutes later wedged under a Muni bus like a pastel-colored tire chock.

When I was a kid, I didn’t like to wear shorts. I thought they looked silly. You never saw a tough guy in a movie wearing shorts. About the toughest movie hero I can think of in shorts was Alec Guinness in Bridge Over the River Kwai, a poor role-model for an eighth-grader, as few 13 year-olds can whistle The Colonel Bogey March convincingly. So I’ve always avoided shorts except when exercising, sleeping, swimming or attending rock concerts high. Also, since I’m a boxer short kind of guy, the idea of riding a motorcycle while wearing shorts is kind of horrifying to me. As the psychiatrist said to the naked patient, “I can clearly see your nuts.”

I’m starting to see a pattern. Self-taught motorcyclists learned how to ride by doing. When they were kids, instead of watching old movies, they were pedaling BMX bikes over rusty heaps of scrap iron. They would often fall down and hurt themselves, get up and do it again, returning home bloody and scabbed. That’s what kids do. So when they age a bit and move up to faster bikes, they use the same safety equipment and learning techniques: none and crashing until they die or stop crashing.

Hopefully, I don’t have to tell you not to ride without protective gear. Wearing a full-face helmet is really just a start. Even if your head is safe in its Kevlar and Styrofoam to-go container, the lump of meat its attached to is crucial for its survival. Severe road-rash, contusions and other injuries to the body can make you less likely to survive a severe head wound, even if you are wearing an $800 Rossi Replica helmet, according to an article in Motorcyclist magazine examining helmet standards last year. And as we all get older, we get more fragile, less able to resist infections and other nastiness.

We all know this, but what is it about warm weather than brings these guys out of the woodwork? And why can’t they wear at least a pair of freakin’ blue jeans? Are their legs so Adonis-like that they have to display them proudly at every opportunity? Are scorching Bay Area 75-degree temperatures just too much to handle wearing long pants? Are they afraid they will be mocked in the society column for being too formal whilst riding?

Who knows? Just put your damn pants on.

Around Laguna With Michael Czysz

2010-02-18T23:04:00.001-08:00

There's nothing terrifying about a ride in a big white 10-passenger van, right? Well, not unless famed motorcycle racer and designer Michael Czysz is driving it around Laguna Seca. A little taste of what you may get if you take the outstanding Skip Barber Superbike School! Great school, just stay out of Michael's van.

Jason DiSalvo is in the front seat (which is why you can't see him), and he was trying to mask his terror like the rest of us. Ari Henning's dreadlocked head swings back in forth in front of my camera. Hilarity ensues as Michael keeps talking and talking as the rest of us are bounced around the interior of the van, trying not to scream or wet ourselves.

There's nothing terrifying about a ride in a big white 10-passenger van, right? Well, not unless Michael Czysz is driving it around Laguna Seca. A little taste of what you may get if you take the outstanding Skip Barber Superbike School! Just stay out of Michael's Van.

Jason DiSalvo is in the front seat (which is why you can't see him), and he was trying to mask his terror like the rest of us. Ari Henning's dreadlocked head swings back in forth in front of my camera. Hilarity ensues as Michael keeps talking and talking as the rest of us are bounced around the interior of the van, trying not to scream or wet ourselves.

Oh, I suppose this might be helpful to those of you who might be riding or driving Laguna in the future, or even playing a video game.

Please go to the Skip Barber Website for more info about the (excellent!) Superbike school!

BMW S 1000 RR: My Impressions

2010-02-08T11:30:00.000-08:00

I rode the BMW S 1000 RR at Palm Beach International Raceway last week, and I'm very impressed. Behold my video walk-around and impressions. Thanks for watching!

Classic Gabe: Cheapskates

2009-12-02T21:38:00.000-08:00

This first ran in City Bike in October, 2005.

I just read in a national motorcycle publication about a guy who got a motorcycle practically for free. He purchased a 1983 Honda CX650C from a local salvage yard for the princely sum of $250. He then purchased a Clymer manual and fixed the thing up over the next five months, getting the clumsily-styled V-Twin roadworthy for under $1000.

He’s over 40 years old and has never owned or ridden a motorcycle before. God bless him for learning about motorcycles from the ground up. God bless him for not learning to ride on an 800-pound Harley or 160-hp GSX-R. And I’m sure he might become a dedicated, life-long motorcyclist. But where’s the sacrifice?

We’ve all met motorcycle cheapskates. They just don’t think motorcycling is something worth spending serious money on. They spend their money on supposedly important things, like cars, clothing, housing, children and vacations. They usually have many other hobbies and interests besides motorcycles that they like to spend money on.

I racked up tens of thousands of dollars of credit card bills on motorcycle racing. I spent $5000 restoring and souping-up an old BMW that I wadded on Mount Hamilton. I went years without even considering a vacation. I drove a cab for seven years because all that cash could be quickly plowed back into my two-wheeled lifestyle. When I was racing my beat-up 250 Ninja in the AFM, many of the guys younger than me or about my age were bankrolled by trust funds or parents. In the meantime, non-racing guys my age were buying houses, cars, vacation homes, and exotic pets. They were having babies, building careers and businesses. I accumulated a rented garage full of rusty parts and broken plastic while my body accumulated a collection of scar tissue and repetitive-stress injuries.

So this guy got himself a motorcycle for $1,000. I should be happy for him. And it’s not his fault that I made so many decisions resulting in my current state of financial precariousness. But I’m still pissed.

Pissed because he tells me quite clearly: motorcycles aren’t worth spending money on. His cheapness cheapens the sacrifices I made to learn what I know about motorcycles. I know not to buy early-90s Ducatis. I know (now) not to spend more money on a used bike than it cost to buy new fixing it up. I know now not to try to race competitively in a “builder’s” class with a 20-year-old bike.

The guy has plenty of bread to lay out on a motorcycle. He must have a clean, well-lit garage and enough leisure time to work on his bike. For that, you need money, more money than you would spend on a nice evening out with the wife to buy your motorcycle with.

I see folks like him every single day when I’m selling motorcycles. They’re middle-aged people who emerge from expensive, high-status cars asking if I have a running motorcycle or scooter for under $1000. Something they can “screw around on.” Because to them, motorcycles are toys, something you have if everything else in your life is perfect, locked down so tight that nothing can possibly go wrong.

Enjoy your bike, cheapskate. You worked hard for your place in the universe, so you can relax in the knowledge that you’re doing everything right. You can wait until the weather is perfect and take a ride on your budget bike and it will be fine. But you won’t be a motorcyclist.

A motorcyclist is more than a guy with a motorcycle. A motorcyclist suffers, makes sacrifices for his machine. He gets under his bike when it starts to fall. He doesn’t move into an apartment if it doesn’t have storage, a garage, or at least a kitchen door wide enough to fit the bike into. A motorcyclist will spend $60 on a gallon of synthetic oil and $12 on a gallon of Scotch.

Motorcycling isn’t an activity served by rational thought or common sense. It’s not about getting the most bang for the buck. There is no Expedia.com for motorcycling, no motorcycle factory outlet malls, as it’s not about getting the most frequent-flyer miles or saving a half-point on your mortgage. It’s about distilling a tiny amount of pure experience from a vast amount of emotional, spiritual and physical resources. It’s a war on common sense, one you will lose after winning a few glorious battles.

Just remember that you get what you pay for.

What did you get?

Gabe Podcosts on Sidestand Up Radio!

2009-11-18T19:09:00.000-08:00

I had a great time yesterday podcasting with Carla King and the gang at Sidestand Up radio yesterday. It was me, Larry from BMW San Francisco, Carla King, Joanne Donne (of gearchic), Jennifer Bromme from WerkstatSF, and Crystal Gurr from Scuderia West. The topics were varied, talking about City Bike, motorcycle testing, women's gear and all kind of other stuff.

We had technical problems meshing the audio gear and laptop-based podcast system, so we all had to huddle on a loveseat in front of Joanne's Mac Book. But it was fun and engaging, with people calling in and chatting in a chatroom as we were talking to each other. A lively discussion.

You can stream it here:

Or download it on iTunes. Thanks!

The Orange Girl...

2009-11-14T15:22:00.000-08:00

Last week, I attended a KTM press event--an introduction of all KTM's streetbikes, including the RC8, RC8 R, and Supermoto 990 R and T. I had lots of fun, but not as much fun as the cast of characters from a local lifestyle magazine that was photographing a young woman, dressed only in orange bodypaint and red wig, on a KTM RC8.

Needless to say, the presence of orange boobies shut down the trackday for a while, but nobody seemed to mind. I present the photos for your enjoyment.

Warning: You can see dark orange female nipples in the following photos, which can instantly warp or damage young minds (unlike gruesome and constant portrayals of graphic violence on TV and video games, which clearly have no effect), or possibly get you slapped with a sexual-harassment suit if you're at work. What a world we live in....

Read my full KTM story: www.motorcycledaily.com.

The crew of the Skip Barber Superbike School enjoying the view as they are photographed for a group portrait. Note Jason DiSalvo's line of sight...

Quick! What's that behind you?

What? Where?

Cycle World's Blake Conner apparently enjoyed the show as much as everybody else.

Shiftless and Clutchless

2009-10-11T18:42:00.000-07:00

I am not here to dish on automatic motorcycles, although making fun of Honda’s tragic new DN-01 is good fun, like harpooning a carp in a martini glass. If you haven’t seen one of these grotesqueries, it’s what happens nine months after a nice young sportbike from Teaneck, New Jersey, off her anti-psychosis medication, had one tequila shooter too many and was date-raped by an unemployed scooter and his no-good friend, a middleweight metric cruiser with a minor criminal record. The resulting child, given up for adoption and then raised by an orthodontist and his wife in Kansas City, means well, but there’s something terribly wrong with him you can’t quite put your finger on. But it’s not because he’s an automatic. I have a token automatic-motorcycle friend, the Aprilia Mana, and he’s okay. He could even date my sister.

Anyway, did you know something like 95 percent of cars and trucks sold in the USA these days are automatic-transmission equipped? Yes, it’s true, and ask a room full of 20-somethings how many of them can drive a stick-shift and you’ll see maybe three or four little pink paws thrust into the air. It’s shocking. And try to teach them how to work a clutch. You’d think the Goddamned thing was an Armenian-labeled electric zither, the way some of them struggle.

At least they’re struggling with something. After all, for many of us, especially the pale-of-hue and middle-of-class, struggling is optional. We all know the story, as the media hasn’t shut up about it for the last 60 years. The G.I.s come home after Saving the World, go to college, get subsidized mortgages and drive on the most expensive road system ever built by mankind, all on Uncle Sam’s dime. Suddenly, after 30 years of enjoying subsidized gasoline, food, heating oil and cotton, and with no sense of irony at all, they gang up on poor little government like a pack of wolves suddenly turning on its ailing alpha male. For the average American, life had gone from hardscrabble On the Waterfront/ Grapes of Wrath drudgery to bubbly Brady Bunch fun in a generation.

Seemingly overnight, life was not so hard. And even after the every-CEO-for-himself 80s, 90s and Oughts, the Enrons and Bernie Madoffs of the world let the middle class keep enough residual wealth so it could go on coddling its kids and enjoying the good life, happily ensconced in its green-grassed and Walmart-ized suburbs. And so we merrily bumble our way through life, trying out one lifestyle after another, expecting everything to come as easily as an adjustable-rate mortgage or ordering the all-you-can eat shrimp platter at Red Lobster (just $14.99 with coupon).

Oh, here comes the e-hate-mail to info@citybike.com: “My father slaved away at IBM so he could buy his house, and I had to work my paper route for three summers so I could buy my Honda Trail 90, you commie fag!” Indeed. We all work hard. But most of the planet’s population has worked just as hard—harder—for centuries, millennia, for the generous reward of an occasional all-you can-eat yam supper and a short life in a palm-frond shack before dying of amoebic dysentery. In fact, even today about three billion people live in appalling conditions, regardless of how hard they toil. If they could buy a Honda 90, they’d probably slice it carpaccio thin, drizzle it with olive oil and eat it. “Oh, sahib, If only we had some capers!”

Seriously, how can you be offended by the reminder that Americans are lazy? We’re the Little Richard of modern laziness. Consider the telephone: A boon to the sluggish, but once we realized we didn’t have to walk to our friend’s house to invite him to dinner, we slipped further down the slope of sloth, inventing the rotary dial, then push-button dialing, then the cordless phone so we didn’t even have to walk to the room with the phone in it (“what?” says the 12-rupee-a-day coolie, “you have a whole other room?”). Now we have voice-activated Bluetooth headsets. We literally don’t need to lift a finger, unless we get cut off in traffic.

So why extend that slothfulness to motorcycling? Learning how to ride a motorcycle without killing yourself is rewarding because it’s challenging. Part of the challenge is acquiring not just one or two, but a whole range of new skills that the rider has to exercise flawlessly, without thinking. Not everyone can do it, but given enough time, practice and the right attitude, almost anybody can. But you have to stick with it.

Stick with it?! We want it now. And if you think this is Old Man Ets-Hokin railing against Kids These Days, let me tell you that I see this in all ages and subgroups. They want an $11,000 sportbike, but can’t be bothered to take a 15-hour training class. They long to be that guy riding his chromed-and-krunked Street Glide down Grand avenue in Oakland, stereo booming louder than the 110-decibel drag pipes, but can you loan them your 50cc scooter, because they can’t do a U-turn in the DMV parking lot. They want to be the sassy 65-year-old grandma tooling around Castro Valley on a pink Sportster, but why is everybody driving so fast? I paid my $20, so give me my M1 endorsement, bitchez!

It used to be that motorcycles, along with guns, power tools and Soviet-built adult novelties were the last refuge of idiot-killing products. Now we’re loosing even that. We’ve got traction control, anti-lock brakes, automatic clutches and even a little red light that reminds us to shift gears (“oh, is that what that shrieking sound is? Guess I better shift! Wait, I don’t know how to shift!”). Next up: proximity alarms, heads-up displays, laser-triggered training wheels?

I don’t like being one of these middle-aged assholes constantly talking about how he was a U.S. Marine, but the comparison is too apt: motorcyclists are the Jarheads of public roads. Motorcycles are challenging, almost impossible to ride without dumping at some point. We don’t have boot camp or screaming drill instructors to weed out the bed-wetters, the non-hackers. We have Sir Isaac and his laws of physics, showing less mercy than the toughest, meanest D.I., killing, maiming or at least scaring shitless those who insist on repeatedly making bad decisions, exercising bad habits.

I’m not saying we don’t appreciate the brilliant engineering that’s making our sport safer, more comfortable and more enjoyable. I’m just saying our sport doesn’t need the inevitable audience idiot-proofed products attract.

Gabe Ets-Hokin is currently in a fetal position under his desk. Please bring him a glass of warm skim milk. Read more Gabe at www.citybike.com, or recruit him to your 419 scam by emailing gabe@citybike.com.

UK PSA: Don't TxT While Drvng

2009-10-03T19:55:00.000-07:00

This PSA, produced by the Gwent (Wales) Police Department and filmmaker Peter Watkins-Hughes illustrates the dangers of texting and driving...or driving and being distracted by anything other than the road and traffic. I'll admit to having driven while distracted in the past: having an iPhone will do that to you. But no more.

The video--this is the 4-minute version, longer versions exist--is shockingly graphic and realistic, and a little manipulative, so be prepared.

Also, the people in it are Welsh, so you'll really have no idea what they're saying. Prepare yourself by listening to a few Tom Jones albums.

How To Make a Million Dollars at Whole Foods

2009-08-01T07:52:00.000-07:00

Love Whole Foods' huge selection of delicious-looking organic meats, produce, groceries and hemp hats? Hate their Buffy-on-holiday-in-Aspen pricing scheme? I figured out a way to not just get free stuff at Whole Foods, but to actually make money.

Yes, a person with sufficent chutzpah could actually make a few bucks. As any diehard Whole Foods shopper knows, if you bring a shopping bag with you (preferably made of hemp), the cashier will offer you a bag credit (or will donate to charity, probably to the widows and orphans of organic hemp farmers) of five cents.

So yesterday, we purchased three serrano chiles, priced at the 300% inflated rate of $2.99 (Berkeley Bowl offers the same conventionally grown peppers for about a dollar a pound). Luckily, serranos are very light, even if they pack a heavy capiscum payload, and they were only 12 cents. Curious, I asked the cashier what would happen if I had only bought one pepper, which would have been about three or four cents, and asked for a bag credit.

"I guess I'd have to give you change," was the answer.

Nice! Here's the scheme: buy the smallest pepper you can find, present bag, take change, and repeat. Figuring 5-10 minutes for the process ( I always seem to pick the slowest-moving checkstand) and an average of one to two cents per transaction, you could make a cool million bucks in just 380 years, if you could find a 24-hour Whole Foods and you were an eternal being who did not require food or sleep. Probably a better living than farming hemp...

The unlukiest and luckiest man alive

2009-07-20T16:07:00.000-07:00

Today, on my way to meet with a City Bike story subject, I left my wallet on my lap as I was fuelling my bike; I usually don't get off my bike to gas it up. When I took off, the wallet stayed between my leg and the tank (I guess), and slid off...somewhere... I was passing Fruitvale on the 880-S when I realized my wallet wasn't making its comforting indentation in my right ass cheek (you in the back! Stop giggling!), and I pulled off the freeway to look for it...not in any of the 114 pockets of my Aerostich, not in my tankbag, not in my pants...oh Lord! Not again! Visions of numerous calls to credit-card companies, waits at the DMV and social security office...nooooooooooooooo!

So I rode the 8 miles abck to the gas station and asked around...have you seen my wallet? No. Have you seen my wallet? No. "Be sure to cancel your credit cards," said the clerk, helpfully. "Me and my family are homeless and living here, so we can keep an eye out," said the homeless guy.

Dejected, I rode home and reported my cards lost, found my passport (which doesn't expire for another year, luckily), and got back on my bike to go to the DMV. But on a whim, I checked the gas station again, carefully retracing my stepse. I then got on the same freeway onramp I had used before, thinking about my new race-compound rear tire, and how I should go easy through the turn. At the slower speeds, I was able to scan along the side of the road and...

A familiar blue rectangular shape among the debris! I rode to the top of the ramp, where there is a large shoulder, and parked. I hopped off the bike and ran the 40 yards down the ramp along the narrow elevated catwalk, running to the other side when I could see there were no cars coming for 75 yards.

Yes, there it was. Most everything had fallen aout and incredibly, was still scattered in a debris field for 10 yards along the low curbing. All my credit cards, some of my business cards, even a reciept or two. But no cash? Had somebody picked th ewallet up, stripped the moolah out and tossed the shell out the window?

Nope; 30 yards up the ramp a Twenty was resting against the opposite curb, and I think that was the sum of all the cash I had in there!

How lucky is that?

Books Review: Bodies in Motion and Traffic

2009-07-11T00:11:00.000-07:00

Bodies in Motion, Steven L. Thompson. 417 pps., Aero Design & Mfg. Co., $19.95

Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (and What It Says About Us), Tom Vanderbilt. 416 pps., Knopf., $24.95

Steve Thompson’s Bodies in Motion begins by relating an experience that’s probably happened to you in one form or another. On a hot summer day in 1965, he was riding his motorcycle to lunch when it slid out on some slippery pavement, high-siding him onto the ground. As he surveyed the bloody wreckage of himself and his bike, a white-haired lady in an Oldsmobile pulled up, lowered her electric window, said disapprovingly, “young man, you’ve gotten glass all over the road,” raised the window and drove off.

Two members of the species homo sapiens sapiens, but clearly not on the same page. And that incident put the question into Thompson’s mind: why do some people dig motorcycles and some people just do not? We all know that there is something different between motorcyclists and non-motorcyclists, and Thompson lays out his case for what that is in his book.

In Tom Vanderbilt’s book Traffic, the question is different: Why do so many people insist on driving like assholes? And what can society do to encourage better behavior? I read both books recently and thought it would be interesting to contrast the questions, assumptions and conclusions of the two writers.

Of course, as a motorcyclist, Thompson’s POV is much more interesting to me. But it’s also more interesting because it’s non-traditional as far as books on transportation go. It’s much more like a scientific paper, using biology, psychology, anthropology and physics to figure out what the hell’s wrong with us, anyway. He looks at traits in our ancestors – like a proclivity for swinging through trees, or taking risks to be better hunters – that may be stronger in motorcyclists, as well as the cultural forces that direct transportation choices. He then digs still deeper, trying to figure out why some riders like cruisers and why others are obsessed with speed and power. He even commissioned a study at Stanford’s Smart Product Design Lab in 2001 analyzing vibration from nine different motorcycle models with “archetypical” engines; V-Twins, V-Fours, thumpers, even a CBX Six-cylinder.

It’s not as esoteric, but for a frequent rider in the murky swamp of Bay Area traffic jams, Vanderbilt’s book offers plenty of insight. He conducted much of his research with traffic engineers and planners, and the perspective, while entertaining and packed with gee-whiz factoids (example: men honk more than women, but both men and women honk more at women then they do at men) is much more detached in its tone than Thompson’s book, seeing people in vehicles as factors to be managed. And how they should be managed is what is most surprising. After a few chapters, it is clear that rules, regulations and traffic cops don’t necessarily make us safer or help traffic flow. The afore mentioned assholes on the road may not even be making things worse: when drivers wait to merge at the last second, traffic actually moves faster, where early merging is the cause of many snarls. The best way to keep things moving and everybody safer may even be to eliminate lanes, traffic lights and crosswalks altogether.

What I noticed in Traffic – and I don’t think even Vanderbilt really picks up on this – is that in general, people don’t like being in cars and trucks, especially when they are boxed in by thousands of other people trapped in their cages. What Thompson shows us is that motorcycles, with their ability to lean into turns, accelerate swiftly and slip between gaps, feel more natural to the human body, a body evolved to swing from trees and freely explore the open veldts and savannahs of East Africa.

That’s why these two books complement each other so well. Both books are entertaining, well-written, even scholarly. Traffic shows us the artificial misery of the car-centered environment and what it does to human interaction, where Bodies explains why motorcycles are so liberating and rewarding to those with a genetic and cultural disposition to two-wheeled machinery. Vanderbilt has little to say about motorcycles, and I think the book suffers for it, as motorcyclists don’t display the behavior that other road-users do. Thompson illuminates why we’re different.

A Tour of Erik Buell's Garage: The Bike Barn!

2009-06-04T09:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was in Mukwonago, Wisconsin, on a tiny old abandoned farm. On the property is the small shed where a racer and former Harley-Davidson engineer named Erik Buell started the company known today as the Buell Motorcycle Company.The shed, also known as "the barn" (even though it's next to an actual barn) has been recently restored to the condition it was in during the 1980s, when Buell was developing his RW750 and RR1000 roadracers. As recently as a couple years ago, Buell had not been in the building for many years and it was literally falling apart, filled with debris and deteriorating parts and relics.

Erik gave a nice tour and talk, which I've preserved on my crummy point-and-shoot video camera. I apologize for the poor video, sound and production quality, but just pretend you're 3 feet high, hard of hearing and have cataracts. After viewing the three videos, scroll down for photos.

And now some photos:

Buell's prototype VR1000 from 1989, with split radiators, a liquid-cooled V-Twin and fuel-in-frame design. Sound familiar?

Close-up of the VR's headstock, with interesting VIN.

You wouldn't guess, but underneath that black bodywork is the V-Rod prototype.

This is the only RW750 in existence. It was powered by the evil Barton two-stroke Four.

Here are a pair of Barton cases. The motors made 163 hp at the crank, but didn't spend a lot of time running: high-speed seizures were common. The motor used two crankshafts, one in front of the other. I'm sure it was a good idea at the time. Buell bought Barton so he could have a steady supply of parts.

Electroshock

2009-05-21T09:47:00.000-07:00

This column is in the June, 2009 issue of CityBike.

I just rode the future. It’s good.

It wasn’t a particularly impressive-looking future, though. The ride was on a 2009 Zero S electric supermoto. The hard numbers: it’s about $10,000, tops out at 60 mph and has a range of about 60 miles at moderate speeds. I enjoyed testing the bike and writing about it (you can see my online review at http://www.motorcycledaily.com/04may09_zeromotorcycles.htm) because I knew it was the first of many electric motorcycle reviews I’ll do before I retire to my beach house in the Aleutian Islands at the age of 79. I also enjoyed it because I knew that although it has its shortcomings, it’s a functional product that will help change the idea that electric vehicles are overpriced feel-good toys for silly enviro-wackos. This will enrage political conservatives, who will hopefully write many entertaining emails pointing out how wrong and stupid I am.

“Ho ho!” they’ll say, spittle spraying at their computer screens as their plump, angry fingers hammer Chinese-made keyboards, “I’m an engineer, and I’ll tell you that electric vehicles will never work, because batteries carry only a fraction of the energy density of gasoline!”

It’s actually a good argument. The Zero’s performance is frankly, pretty lame compared to even a small gas-powered bike if you don’t care about the benefits of having an electric vehicle. But let’s look at two things:

First, the amount of R&D that’s going into electric vehicles and batteries is staggering. The communist Chinese are pouring colossal amounts of money into battery technology and it seems that the cycle of battery types happens faster and faster, from NiMh to NiCad to LiPo to GdKnWt (for God-Knows-What), with each new battery offering more capacity, power and life. The lithium-ion batteries in the Zero not only offer a huge advance in energy density over grandpa’s lead-acid (sorry, LeAc) batteries, but are non-toxic and could last much longer than the 400-500 charging cycles Zero rates them at. It’s likely that the replacement battery sold in five years could be much cheaper while offering far more power and range.

But the tasty news for us motorheads is something I was talking to Michael Czysz about the other day. Besides having the hardest name in the world to spell, (say “sizz”), Michael Whatever is well-known for developing the MotoCzysz C1, a high-end sportbike that was designed to compete in MotoGP before the displacement limit was changed to 800cc from 990. Michael heard one of his guys ask to borrow the frame from his R1 to compete in the upcoming TTXGP, a race around the Isle of Man entirely on electric bikes.

Michael decided it’d be better to design a racebike from the ground up, a bike that could be developed as a consumer model in the future. If he meets the deadline, the bike, which will be raced by American rider Mark Miller in June, will be an engineering feat. It will weigh about 440 pounds, make 115 hp and be able to make a 37.7-mile lap around the Isle at a race pace: up to 150 mph. Michael talked of using that design as a basis for a line of electric bikes with prices starting under $20,000 with a modular design that would allow the consumer to upgrade performance as the need arose.

This means that you buy a basic bike, and when technology advances, you plug in your new batteries, software, motors, etc. What’s exciting is thinking about being able to order up the latest battery and doubling or tripling performance for a lot less than what you’d pay to double or triple performance in an internal-combustion engine. After a few decades of motorcycles making leaps and bounds in performance, I think the performance ceilings are closing in, much like the piston-engined fighter plane reached the pinnacle of its development in WWII. And what are you going to do with a 220 hp streetbike, anyway? Pull a horse trailer?

The basic sportbike chassis – frame, brakes, suspension – is so good now that improvements are going to be incremental. Radial-mount brake calipers look cool, but do they really work that much better than the older style? We’re talking shades of grey. If electric vehicles can reach or surpass the performance of their gas counterparts, with a far smaller carbon footprint, why wouldn’t we want to offer consumers that choice? My car will require thousands of dollars of maintenance before it’s ready to be shredded into pellets and sent to China. Electric cars don’t blow head gaskets, chew up clutches, drop transmissions or piss a mile-long trail of radiator fluid down I-5. They’re also much easier on brakes and tires. And sure, the electricity needs to come from dirty powerplants, but because electric motors are so much more efficient than internal-combustion, they emit far less pollutants per mile traveled.

We don’t have to get all weepy about losing the sounds and smells of big V-Twins and screaming Inline Fours. My hope is that electrics will offer affordable, clean performance and become so popular that gasoline returns to the status it had 100 years ago: a cheap by-product. This would let the small minority of automotive and motorcycle enthusiasts afford to ride and drive their passions to their heart’s content, freeing the masses from the tyranny of slow, polluting, unreliable gasoline engines. There is no doubt in my mind that within 10 years, a large part – maybe even half – of total motorcycle sales will be electric.

The world’s changing. It’s getting better. It always has been. Get used to it.

Street Triple Review

2009-04-10T15:34:00.000-07:00

This column originally appeared in CityBike in March of 2008.

I would like to apologize to you for being light on the motorcycle-related content front as of late. Cranking out fresh copy for Old Man Halton every month like some kind of trained monkey is a challenge. “Not bitter enough!” he growls via email. “You call that irony?” he writes. So my columns tend towards the bitter and ironic, and the motorcycling aspect is sometimes left at the bus station, sleeping under the Racing Form until the transit cop rudely rousts him with a well-placed jab of the nightstick. Of late, I have been focusing on issues better left for the Northern California Jewish Bulletin. Sorry about that.

So now, for your troubles, and to thank you for taking the empty Starbucks cups out of the Citybike rack, I give you an actual motorcycle review. To celebrate the fact that this is an unpaid (but tax-deductible) gig with Citybike, I will write this review in a very unstructured way. So if you are after information, and not entertainment, I beg you now, before it’s too late, to put this paper back under the pile of The Learning Annex and turn on KNBR.

The bike: the Triumph Street Triple 675. It may be the perfect motorcycle, once a few glaring flaws are addressed. Let’s get them out of the way first:

-Crummy suspension: To account for a weak dollar, I think Triumph needed to keep the price of the rear shock under £2, 5 shilling, sixpence per unit. It has a soft spring and little damping. I cranked the preload collar way down, which controlled the ride a little but made me bite my tongue when I went over bumps. The front suspension is non-adjustable, and will bottom out if you hit a dip at 50 mph.

-Cheap brakes: Two piston calipers, much like what you’ll find on a Ducati SportClassic or SV650. At least Triumph has the class to use steel-braided lines, which means what feel there is isn’t squandered by rubber lines. Still plenty of power to loft the rear wheel, if that’s what you’re into.

-No wind protection: my Speed Four came stock with a little flyscreen that was pretty effective, and the MSRP was $1400 less. It’s not my fault Bush wrecked our economy and made the dollar worthless against the Pound. Please don’t take it out on me.

Easy fixes, all three issues; hop on eBay and a universe of 675 Daytona parts will crop up; lower fork legs, radial-mount brake calipers and the Daytona’s stellar rear shock will be yours for the asking. And they sell a flyscreen out of their accessory catalog. What’s right about the Street Triple is everything else: this is a barely-fettered middleweight supersport bike that’s fun and comfortable to ride, has way more torque than rational people need in something so light and peppy and is fast where it counts: from 30-100 mph. All the while it makes these sounds through the airbox and mufflers that makes a V-Twin sound like Mr. Magoo’s Hupmobile. It will have you saying things like “Cack,” and “Bollocks,” even if you have no idea what they mean.

Triumph hit one out of the park here, folks, and that any testicle-equipped twenty-something would pick a sportbike, which is really no fun unless you’re on a racetrack or a perfect stretch of road over one of these is another of life’s great mysteries. For the love of God, it does second-gear wheelies without being asked. It can slalom through Bott’s dots at 75 mph. It has near-perfect fuel injection, is smooth at 11,000 rpm and it’s wicked, wicked fast. For street riding it’s too fast; the bike’s attitude rubs off on you and encourages chance-taking you wouldn’t perform on another machine.

It doesn’t matter that the guy trying to pass on a GSX-R1000 has 60 hp on you; that triple-cylinder honk hits your inhibitions like a chain drug store’s house-brand gin (“Royal Guardsman”) and makes you roll the throttle open to the stop, leaving GSX-R guy wondering who the looney fucker on that weird green bike was, and why he took off like Mike Huckabee suddenly realizing he accidentally walked into the AVN Awards Banquet.

Can you tell I like it? Can you tell I want one? If the best sportbike is a modern middleweight, with a hundred-something horses and a featherweight chassis, then putting handlebars on one and stripping the bodywork makes it even better, possibly the ultimate streetbike. It’s the kind of bike that makes global warming acceptable, that makes you sympathize with sex offenders and repo men. It’s enough to make me stop saying “Oy, vey,” and start saying “Oi! Wanker! Out of me way!”

Gabe Ets-Hokin is an English actor, known for his hard man roles in the Guy Ritchie crime films Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Revolver and Snatch.

AMA Pro Racing Announces American SponsorBike Class for 2010

2009-04-01T19:17:00.000-07:00

Photo: Paul Goff

Not confused enough by the new AMA Superbike series? Just in case you do have a firm mental grip on the differences between Daytona Superbike, American Superbike, Supersport and MotoST, Florida-based AMA Pro Racing today announced yet another class for the 2010 season: American SponsorBike.

The new class will pit an array of different-displacement motorcycles clad in unique bodywork designed for “maximal aerodynamic and revenue-gathering efficiency,” said Colgate Aamco, AMA ProRacing’s director of competition and cooperation. The neon-illuminated fairings, designed to resemble the “dustbin” style enclosures seen at Grand Prix races in the ’50s, must be a minimum of 9 feet long, 6 feet high and will be maintained by special crews from Clear Channel Outdoor.

To ensure exciting competition with “enhanced adequation,” a careful mix of motorcycles will be allowed in the class. The Buell 1125R will be gridded against the Suzuki SV650SF, Yamaha FZ6R, Kawasaki Ninja 250R, Royal Enfield Bullet Machismo and Honda Nighthawk 250RR. Ducati will be allowed to enter a Bianchi 12-speed if it’s ridden by a heavy smoker, preferably with arrhythmia.

Other competition- and revenue-enhancing programs will be put in place for the 2010 season. In addition to AMA officials actually selling their personal naming rights, announcers will now replace select verbs, adjectives and nouns with sponsors’ names. For instance, the word “pass” will now be “Tide,” “win” will now be “IBM”, and “motorcycle” will now be “Sunoco,” among other changes.

“I think this will be an IBM-IBM situation for everyone,” said AMA Pro Racing director McDonald’s Tyson. “There will be Fedex Cisco-ing and Google Nike-ing. But not too much Qualcom-ity will be allowed to Nordstrom the Sherwin-Williams or eBay the McKesson. But let’s not forget that first and foremost, AMA Pro Racing will always provide an Allstate to the loyal Home Depots out there, and not just Pfizer the 3Ms.”

Gabe Ets-Hokin has been taken out behind the woodshed, where he will be safely recycled.

Build Your Own Ducati Streetfighter! Part I

2009-03-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

I like sportbikes. I like a motor tuned for high-rpm running, a close-ratio transmission, rigid chassis, good brakes and light weight. What I don' tlike is hunching over my gas tank like I've just been punched in the stomach. I don't like sore wrists. I don't like worrying about my bike getting stolen so some putz can sell my shiny plastic bodywork on eBay.

I also find I ride better if I don't have all that fancy plastic on my bike. Riding on a fast, bumpy, twisty road with a $10,000, full-fairing sportbike feels like jogging through a minefield while carrying a tray full of wineglasses. How many salvage-title bikes are out there with nothing wrong with them but scratched and cracked bodywork? One little spill of diesel fuel, one slippery dead squirrel, and you're looking at a $4000 work order. Funny how a huge piece of ABS plastic sold as a child's toy is $14.95, but a similar item is $798.54 from Suzuki, Ducati or BMW. Gotta pay for that performance somehow, no?

Nothing's better than getting something for nothing, and there's no better way to do that than to get 2009 technology at 1985 prices. How do you do that? It's easy, my friend: buy a crashed late-model motorcycle on Craigslist and turn that into a streetfighter.

I did that with a 2000 Ducati 750SS recently, and I gotta say it's been tremendously satisfying. a Ducati customizer had built it for his brother as a first bike. He took a 620 Monster motor, bolted 800cc jugs on it and slapped the resulting contraption into a donor chassis. The exhaust was a weird old 2-1 Staintune unit allegedly dug out of a dumpster behind the Staintune factory. I saw the bike on Craigslist and felt I needed to at least go look at it.

Pierre Terblanche, I love you, but the bodywork and your torturously low clip-ons gotta go. A guy in Canada bought the exhaust system, eh.

Every piece of bodywork was scuffed except the fender and right-rear tailsection, and one panel was finished in primer grey. But it was clean and the 2005 Monster 620 motor had just 1000 miles on it. Remembering my wife’s 620 was, I figured it could be fun. The seller (not related to the builder or his hapless brother, who dropped the thing on both sides) seemed frustrated; despite having an aftermarket FI-tuning thing on the bike, he couldn't get it to run right. He was asking a bit much, but I could tell he was ready to deal.

I took it out for a testride, and it was touch-and-go for a while. The SS was almost impossible to ride at low speeds, the way it twitched, spat and bucked, and the suspension was stiff, frequently bouncing me off the seat. But over 6000 rpm the motor ran strong and clean. The Staintune sounded good, flat and mean and not too loud. It was indeed fun.

"I shouldn't buy this thing,” I said when I got back from a 5-mile testloop. “But if you'll say yes to $2600, I'll have to take it home."

“Done!”

I should never have read “ You Can Negotiate Anything.” Damn you, Herb Cohen!

Now what? Well, I've wanted a streetfightered Ducati Supersport for a while. I like Monsters for the ideal of how they look: a motor, two wheels, a gas tank and not much else - but they always seem to handle in a strange way, like you’re riding a bike in a low-budget video game. I've never liked that. But these Supersports...slow, linear steering, unmatchable high-speed stability, firm suspension that re-creates the sadomasochistic ‘70s café-racer experience, brakes like hitting a Bagdad blast wall. My idea of perfection. What I don’t like is the torturously low bars and fuzz-attracting sportbike fairing. What if I took the fairing off, added an LsL handlebar kit and a headlight and called it a day?

If only it were that easy...

Road Rage and You

2009-03-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

A Guide to Surviving the Urban Jungle on Two Wheels

I originally wrote this story for Motorcycle.com in 2006, but have reposted it here for my friends at the Bay Area Riders Forum. Would it kill you to click on an ad or two here? All proceeds will go to Gabe's Foundation for Babys, Puppies and Kittens.

But as this charioteer lurched over towards me
I struck him in my rage...
He was paid back, and more!
Swinging my club in this right hand I knocked him
Out of his car, and he rolled on the ground.
I killed him.... I killed them all.
- Sophocles, Oedipus Rex, 430 BC

You're on your brand new Super Moto bike and you want to go for a ride. You call up your friend, and you meet for coffee. You talk about your new KTM and how fast and fun it is, how it will give you an edge over the plodding, inattentive masses in their Volvos, rental cars and SUVs.

You roar around the car on the shoulder of the road, scream a few choice obscenities at the girls and do a wheelie around the bend.
You head out to the beach, the thumper's motor roaring in your ears and the cool salty air filling your lungs. As you come up to a stop sign, two young women in a sedan hesitate in front of you, looking at the water. You honk at them, and one of them waves a saucy middle finger at you.

Something snaps inside the reptilian core of your brain stem. You roar around the car on the shoulder of the road, scream a few choice obscenities at the girls and do a wheelie around the bend. Panting, you start to grin a little bit as you wait for your friend at the next stoplight when a guy in a pick-up truck suddenly pulls up next to you...

"Hey, that was my daughter in that car you were yelling at. Why don't you chill out?" he yells.

"F--k you!" you respond, startled. You take off after giving his door a well-placed kick with your steel-toed motocross boot. You gun the throttle, but he was already on the gas and his truck swerves towards you.

What happens next? Maybe the guy in the truck purposely swerves and hits you, knocking you off your bike and crushing your body beneath three tons of angry metal. Maybe your rear tire slips on something and you lowside underneath the truck. Maybe you escape unharmed.

Whatever happens, you've been involved in a road-rage incident. And when a car and a motorcycle are involved in a crash caused by road-rage, it doesn't matter who was right or wrong, or if the car driver deliberately tried to make the motorcyclist crash, because the end result is usually the same: a killed or injured biker.

"Road Rage" is not a legal, medical or scientific term. Instead, it is a term used in the news media to describe "a range of anti-social behaviors and/or acts of aggression which occur on the road", according to a 1999 Australian study. Such behaviors can include speeding, swerving, cutting off other drivers, running stop signs and other traffic signals, to extreme acts like ramming other vehicles, getting out of the vehicle to physically fight, or using firearms to settle "disputes". According to a 1998 study by the National Highway and Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), six out of 10 drivers felt personally threatened by another road user in their past year of driving.If you think road rage is any threatening display of aggression, then road rage is a rampant epidemic that touches everybody who uses public roads. According to a 1998 study by the National Highway and Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), six out of 10 drivers felt personally threatened by another road user in their past year of driving. However, only one or two percent of drivers from a 2002 study reported either getting out of their vehicles to assault or argue with another driver or attempting to hit another driver or vehicle with their vehicle. These incidents rarely result in injury or death, but when they do, they receive much attention from the media.

On Christmas Eve, 1999, an Oakland, CA motorcyclist named Julius Long was riding his brand-new KTM Duke II near Ocean Beach in San Francisco when he had some kind of verbal altercation with a pair of women in a car. The father of one of the women, a Pacific Bell employee named Gerald Bowen, saw the incident from the cab of his pickup truck and followed Long so he could tell Long what was what. When he caught up to Long, the 49 year-old biker started screaming at him and kicking his door, according to Bowen and other witnesses.

What followed is the subject of debate. Long pulled away and Bowen followed him. According to Bowen, Long pulled ahead of his truck and then lost control of the KTM, which dumped him under the truck, killing him. Other witnesses say Bowen intentionally hit Long's bike. Bowen blames Long's aggressive attitude and what he believes is a dangerous, highly-strung bike that is ready to spit off an unwary rider at any moment: In a phone interview Bowen told me that Long's bike was a "260cc Duke II: it's very unpredictable, fast and top-heavy, not advised even for experienced riders". Whatever happened, Bowen maintains it was completely Long's fault, even though he tearfully apologized to Long's wife in court and said he felt "immense responsibility."

Bowen was arrested and eventually pled nolo contendre (no contest, which works like a guilty plea but doesn't admit guilt for the purposes of future civil lawsuits) to misdemeanor vehicular manslaughter. The San Mateo County court gave him a reduced nine-month sentence in county jail. After six years, Bowen is still sad Long died; "I still think about Mr. Long every time I drive by [that spot]", but does not feel his actions were to blame.
This is the stretch of Skyline Boulevard in Daly City where Julius Long was killed.

Bowen told me he said that because he was in a situation where the motorcyclist died, even if it was all Long's fault, as 58 year-old Bowen was an avid motorcycle racer and enthusiast and had only sold his last Harley about five years before he killed Long. In Bowen's view, the relationship between cars and motorcycles in a crowded urban setting like the Bay Area is an adversarial one that will lead to death or injury of motorcyclists; "I had a Harley, [but] you couldn't settle back and relax ...I didn't like to defend myself riding down the road." Now Bowen sees "motorcyclists cutting through traffic, smashing mirrors..."

Bowen maintains he was framed by over-zealous San Mateo prosecutors, but my call to Deputy San Mateo District Attorney Kathleen Rodgers revealed anything but a zealot. "I don't like motorcycles: I think they're dangerous", Rodgers said when I told her who I worked for. Rodgers had been assigned the case from another DA and was not a homicide prosecutor. The DA's office in San Mateo county, like most DAs, just wanted a fast conviction.

The Long killing is eerily reminiscent of another killing that occurred just 50 miles away in 2004. Rick Stern, a 55 year-old Harley rider from Monte Rio, Calif., was riding along Bohemian Highway, a meandering, two-lane road that winds its way through the redwood forests of Sonoma County. It has some annoyingly long double-yellow line zones, especially if you're on a motorcycle and stuck behind tourists or other slow-movers. Stern passed a Ford Explorer driven by 48 year-old Mark Fournier, a man who has admitted to having "anger issues" and who has been described by his doctor as having "a hair trigger". Fournier gunned the motor of his SUV, passed Stern, and then attempted to teach him "a little bit of a lesson" by hitting his brakes.

Stern skidded 111 feet before he hit the Explorer. He died of massive chest injuries in a helicopter on his way to the hospital. Fournier admitted to authorities he passed Stern and purposely hit his brakes ten months after the crash. Fournier's trial for vehicular manslaughter, voluntary manslaughter, and assault with a deadly weapon is scheduled for May, 2006.

Another biker was killed last year in Delaware when 40 year-old Joseph August was riding with a friend near Hartly, Del. August and his buddy were cut off by a Chevy Suburban driven by 27 year-old Willis Miller. August and the friend followed Miller about 100 feet down the road, parked their bikes and confronted him. In the ensuing argument, they yelled and screamed at each other, and one of them damaged Miller's rear-view mirror. Then they got back on their bikes and took off.

Smart has noticed what may be a link between perpetrators of road-rage incidents and what psychiatrists call "explosive personality disorder" (EPD).Miller, who had been drinking heavily earlier that day, turned his truck around and took off after the two men, hitting speeds up to 80 mph. When he did catch up, he hit the bikes from behind, shoving August off the road and making the other rider crash 300 feet further up the road. August died from internal bleeding. Miller tried to hide at first but turned himself in and pled guilty to manslaughter earlier this year.

What turns ordinary motorists into killers of motorcyclists, pedestrians, and other motorists? Although there isn't as much scientific research as you'd expect, many researchers worldwide have done some work in this field. Dr. Reginald Smart, who works with the Center for Addiction and Mental Health in Toronto, Canada, has analyzed road-rage incidents from thousands of surveys, interviews and studies.

Smart has noticed what may be a link between perpetrators of road-rage incidents and what psychiatrists call "explosive personality disorder" (EPD). He theorizes that this "disorder may be more prevalent among road rage perpetrators," although he admits that no studies have correlated it with people who have injured or killed other motorists during an instance of road rage.

There are two distinct categories of road-rage incidents and road-ragers. The first is common; you've either had it done to you or done it to some hapless schlubb on the road yourself sometime. Smart calls it "verbal" road-rage; driving aggressively, passing somebody closely or cutting them off, flipping somebody off or screaming and yelling. We've all done it, or if you're especially saintly, at least had it done to you.

The second category is more serious. "Dangerous" or "frequent" road-ragers differentiate themselves from their more casual brothers by actually acting on the rage they feel. "That's what we're concerned with" said Dr. Smart in a phone interview. These are people who report having a road-rage incident more than six to 10 times a year. They have "psychiatric problems, short fuses, things bother them that wouldn't bother most people." Acting out can range from getting out of their cars to confront other road users to brandishing -- and using -- weapons like guns, bats, tire irons, knives or even their cars and trucks. This behavior is correlated with a psychiatric condition known as "explosive personality disorder", which is marked by the subject suddenly exhibiting violent, destructive behavior.

How does this affect motorcyclists? Smart acknowledges there is little research about motorcyclists and road-rage, either as victims or perpetrators. He says that motorcycles "just don't come into view, but maybe they should." However, there is an interesting link between high-performance sportscars and road rage, which is germane because almost every motorcycle on the road is, by automotive standards, a high-performance vehicle.

Such vehicle drivers engage in mild road-rage incidents like weaving in and out of traffic, speeding and cutting off other drivers more frequently than drivers of slower vehicles. However, the incidents of severe road-rage behavior are much more prevalent among commercial truck drivers. Men far outnumber women in all kinds of road-rage, and younger men are far more likely to engage in risky, dangerous, aggressive behavior. Motorcyclists probably engage in aggressive, obnoxious driving habits more than other road users, but are no more likely than anybody else to escalate that aggression into something truly dangerous. How big a problem is road-rage, really? If we're talking about burly truckers exiting their rigs to punch out old ladies or toss their poodles into traffic, it's not really a big problem. True violence and destruction happens so infrequently that when it does, it's usually national news. However, if you define it as aggressive driving in general, then it's a huge problem. According to the NHTSA, 30 percent of fatal traffic accidents in 2004 were somehow speed-related, if not directly caused by what we would call severe road-rage. That's 13,000 people killed and by extrapolation, 800,000 injured annually and billions and billions of dollars in property damage, medical bills and lost productivity. That's like 9/11 happening every 12 weeks, except we have nobody to bomb to make us feel better. What can be done?

Like every social problem, there are two schools of thought. The first school consists of what legal scholars call "retributionists". They believe that harsh legal penalties will keep people's behavior in check and let victims and families taste the sweet sensation of revenge. However, when reviewing what happens in the legal cases of road-rage incidents, it seems the prosecutors often fail to even ask that the full force of the law be visited upon the perpetrator.

"I think murder is an inappropriate charge for what we know as road rage. [In] a lot of road-rage incidents, the perpetrator did not in fact intend to kill the other person...they intended to `teach them a lesson', they intended to bump them...I asked Ian Kelley, an up-and-coming San Francisco Bay Area criminal defense attorney, about what the legal system could do to damp down the seeming epidemic of road rage. I was surprised to find out that road-rage crimes are by their very definition, difficult to seriously penalize someone for.

The problem is that "heat of passion crimes are not deemed as morally blameworthy in the same way as deliberated and planned homicides are", according to 36 year-old Long Island transplant Kelley. In general, a "heat of passion" defense negates the intentional aspect of many crimes; the rage itself makes it impossible for a person to think clearly. That makes it impossible to murder someone, since murder is by definition an intentional act. The red fog clouds your mind and lessens the ability to act rationally, reducing murder to vehicular manslaughter, negligent homicide, or some other crime that does not require specific intent.

Kelley goes on to explain: "I think murder is an inappropriate charge for what we know as road rage. [In] a lot of road-rage incidents, the perpetrator did not in fact intend to kill the other person...they intended to `teach them a lesson', they intended to bump them...just to flip them out a little. They acted with a reckless disregard for the well-being of another, but it's no different than driving with a reckless disregard if they are impaired by alcohol, drugs, age, or whatever."

Another problem is that many in the general public--including prosecutors, juries and judges--just don't "understand motorcycles just don't fall over...they think that motorcycles are dangerous, tipsy instrumentalities. The driver will say that `I didn't mean to hit him, I just swerved and he fell over.'" In other words, many people assume a motorcycle will crash easily in a straight line, which is what Bowen claimed happened to Long. Even when multiple witnesses--even the driver himself--describe the road-raging driver tapping, bumping, or hitting the brakes and causing a crash, proof of an intentional act to actually kill the motorcyclist still isn't certain beyond the "shadow of doubt" the law requires to prove a defendant guilty of murder. Because motorcycles seem so "tipsy", maybe the motorcyclist himself caused the crash, not the road-raging driver who might never have actually contacted the motorcycle. Therefore, most district attorneys will seek a lesser charge than murder to be positive of securing a conviction in a road-rage case.

Does this mean killing a motorcyclist is basically a crime without the severe penalties a non-vehicle based killer would get? From my research, I would say yes; I found no cases of a defendant being convicted of murder for killing a motorcyclist with his vehicle. Our common-law legal system, which treats murder and other homicide crimes the same way it has for hundreds of years, cannot punish moto-killers. In Kelley's words, "The way to teach people to act with more deliberation is from education from when they're young, not from increasingly penalizing them. The very nature of what the crime is suggests that penalizing it more won't help anything, because people are not thinking about penalties at the moment they're acting. In fact, they're not thinking about anything."

Another component to "Justice for All" is to include motorcyclist awareness as part of each state's driver-education program.Before you accuse him of being a mamby-pamby bleeding heart, consider that requiring more education of motorists in general is always a good thing. Even the most John Birch-worshipping GPTB in our MO peanut gallery acknowledges this fact. The American Motorcyclist Association also agrees. AMA Spokesman Tom Lindsay acknowledges that "any motorcyclist killed by a willful act is something that should anger all citizens. Regardless of how, it still has the same result: a dead motorcyclist. We can't bring back a dead rider, but we can make sure the system has the ability or the option to adequately punish motorists who injure or kill other motorists." However, the AMA does not sponsor or endorse any legislation that specifically targets the killers of motorcyclists. Instead, they have a multi-faceted program known as "Justice For All" that promotes safe driving through awareness and education. It will take time, according to Lindsay: "what needs to change are the laws state by state. It's a process, not an event." There's no single magic piece of legislation that will change things; rather, a combination of education, legislation and public awareness will make things safer for all road users.

On the legislative side, the AMA is working in all 50 states to increase penalties "for those who commit manslaughter with a motor vehicle" and increase "fines and driver's license suspensions on drivers who commit traffic offenses that injure or kill others." The legislation doesn't differentiate from those who kill motorcyclists from those who kill any other road user; it's easier for the general public to support broader legislation than that which only protects one group. The AMA website for "Justice for All" claims to have enacted pieces of this legislation in four states but needs the help of motorcyclists in the other 46. (Hint, hint: join the AMA!)

Another component to "Justice for All" is to include motorcyclist awareness as part of each state's driver-education program. A major component of this awareness campaign is a module the AMA lobbies to be included in all state's driver's training programs called "Motorcyclists Matter" that alerts prospective drivers about sharing the road with motorcyclists. I asked Lindsay if it talked about how road-rage affects motorcyclists; he told me that the AMA assumes "all training includes admonitions not to use a vehicle as a weapon. We reinforce that we are vulnerable to other road users."

Yes, we are. No matter how tough and invincible you think you are, no matter how fast your bike is or how skilled you are, no bike on earth can stand up to a 3,000 pound car. The problem happens when a motorcyclist somehow triggers a severe road-rager--someone who lets his road-rage turn violent--with their mild, garden-variety road-rage that almost everybody exhibits. As Dr. Smart says, "in some cases victims turn into perpetrators [of violent assault or other crimes, and]...someone who starts as a perpetrator may become a victim."

Telling a road-raging rider to chill out is easy for me to say now, sitting in front of a computer. However, the reality, out on the road with adrenaline coursing through your veins and the feel of a 100 hp machine between your legs is something else. The monster awakens deep in your cerebral cortex and makes you do crazy things. Just remember this; there are other monsters slumbering out there too, waiting for some crazy guy with loud pipes to wake them up. Do you want to do battle like a pair of middle-aged Komodo dragons? Is it worth it?

One road-rage death affected my life. Julius Long was a friend of mine; we drove for the same taxicab company in San Francisco. I bought a motorcycle from him and we used to go riding together. It's easy for me to say that Julius made a bad decision, tangling with a psycho redneck in a pickup truck, but it's not that clear. I could have made the same choices; in fact, I often have. I've kicked my share of car doors and broken a mirror or two (I think). But I'm going to think more about how I interact with other road users from now on. I hope you do, too.

Taming the Monster: How to Avoid Road Rage.

Most of this advice will seem pretty obvious, but what's obvious to you, Mr. educated college-degree 21st Century man, will not seem so obvious to that primeval Neanderthal that dwells just a few millimeters below your ironically hip "Twisted Sister" concert T-shirt. The next time things start getting hot between you and another road user--whether you're in your car or on your bike--run a few of these through your conscious mind.

If you are raging:
Think of what you're doing. Would you do it if your mother, wife, daughter or girlfriend were watching? Is this something that would be appropriate if you were in a crowded elevator or in a crowd at an airport? Keep a laminated picture of your kids or other loved ones on your dashboard or gas tank. If you knew the person in the other vehicle, would you be acting this way? You might actually know him!

If you can't get away (you might be on something slow like a moped or a Harley), let them get in front of you and then pull over. Let them go!

If you're confronted by a rager:

If you're on your bike, get very, very far away from them. Don't assume you outran them. Keep checking behind you for a long, long time. If you see a police officer get their attention. Nothing chills a road-rager like a black-and-white. If you can't get away (you might be on something slow like a moped or a Harley), let them get in front of you and then pull over. Let them go! If they come after you, find a crowd of people or a brightly lit area. If you're on a bike you are more vulnerable to them when you're moving. If they do corner you and they get out of their car they might start talking about damaging your bike or hurting you. Stay seated on your bike and keep them talking, but don't antagonize them; often times when they stop talking it's because they have a weapon of some kind. In some states (like Arizona), over 10 percent of motorists are armed some or all of the time, and alarmingly (but maybe not surprisingly), serious road-ragers are much more likely to be armed. If they do pull out a weapon you should revert to my people's ancient martial arts technique of screaming and begging for your life. It's not very noble, but at least you'll be alive to feel the shame and humiliation. If you are in a car or truck, don't get out of the vehicle. This will escalate the situation and increase the chances of it ending badly. Maybe he'll kick your ass (or worse) or you'll kick his; in either case you're either going to the hospital or jail (or both; cops don't really care who "started it"). Both places are like hangovers from single-malt scotch; expensive and not much fun.
Maybe he'll kick your ass (or worse) or you'll kick his; in either case you're either going to the hospital or jail.

2009-03-03T11:01:00.000-08:00

Aerostich Transit Waterproof Leather Suit

By Gabe Ets-Hokin

Photos By Bob Stokstad

If the San Francisco Bay Area’s motorcycling community was to become a separatist republic and design a flag, it would probably be a picture of a lane-splitting commuter wearing an Aerostich suit. Come to think of it, the flag would probably be a tattered, faded Aerostich suit. In fact, the Bay Area is Aerostich’s best market. For 26 years, the one-piece (and two-piece) Roadcrafter suit has been the gold standard of riding apparel.

Sure, it has its flaws. It’s not 100% waterproof (although Aerostich claims it is with proper preparation). The baggy fit isn’t exactly flattering and can slow you down at higher speeds what with all the flapping and fluttering. And although pound-for-pound nothing is as abrasion-resistant as the heavy Cordura, a freeway-speed crash will usually total a Roadcrafter. And importantly, for Aerostich at least, is the fact that a guy riding a cruiser or vintage bike in a bright-colored jumpsuit looks freakish, closing off a huge segment of the U.S. motorcycle market. The dream: the fit, look and abrasion resistance of leather with the versatility and comfort of a Roadcrafter.

Luckily, former DuPont chemist Bill Gore built a multi-billion dollar company based on tapping the potential of polytetrafluoroethylene, or PTFE. Only in America, I tells you! Gore-Tex outerwear is well-known for being waterproof and warm, thanks to its semi-permeable nature which allows water vapor out and blocks water droplets from coming in. Hey! Why not bond it to leather? Well, because it’s a pain in the ass, but after 32 years, Gore finally brought its Pro Shell leather to market, and Aerostich quickly (okay, not so quickly) brought its take on waterproof leather to market, the Transit suit.

The Pro Shell leather is a unique, much-engineered and very expensive material. It’s perforated and treated to reduce absorption of both water and solar radiation. It’s a truly global product: Spanish cows sacrifice their hides to Italian tanners who send the leather to the U.K. to be turned into Pro Shell. Aerostich then has its Transit suit sewn in a specially-equipped factory in Vietnam.

The Transit is designed to be your basic black leather riding suit with some of the functional features the Roadcrafter has. It has full-length zippers on the pants and plenty of pockets inside and out. It has the big back vent with massive reflective flap. It’s got a tall collar and numerous stretchy panels for a comfortable fit. For safety, it has Aerostich’s latest CE-approved armor, dubbed TF-5, at the knees, elbows, hips and spine.

Your relationship with a leather jacket starts the moment you touch it for the first time. The Transit’s first impression is very favorable. It’s very light (the jacket and pants weigh only 2 pounds more than my one-piece Roadcrafter) and is nicely made. Fit is familiar to anyone with an Aerostich, if a little closer. For leather, especially brand-new leather, it’s comfortable and easy to walk around in. If you’re used to textile apparel, it’ll seem restrictive, but if you’re used to heavy roadrace leathers, the simple, boxy jacket and jeans-cut pants will feel like pajamas.

The riding experience is what you’d expect from Aerostich gear. It’s warm and comfy – the perforations don’t flow any air (thanks to the PTFE film bonded to the inside) – and a 20-minute shower (in an actual shower) revealed true waterproofiness, with no damp crotch or damp anything underneath. It dries off quickly, too. The leather is remarkably flexible and soft, and Aerostich tells me it will get better as it breaks in and molds to the rider. It’s also warmer than either textile or standard leather, which is handy as there isn’t much room to layer underneath; order a size larger if you want to wear a fleece and an electric liner. Ditto for the pants if you want to wear street clothes underneath.

Warm weather will be a little more comfy than a Roadcrafter or standard leather gear, as the Pro Shell is designed to absorb less heat, keeping the rider cooler. Let’s hope that’s true, as there is no front venting other than the main zipper.

Other downsides to consider: sizing is even only for the jacket (sizes 38-52) and pants (30-44), with no provision for inseams or short or tall sizes. And as of press time, Aerostich can’t do any alterations or add any features like knee-slider Velcro. Expect this all to change if the Transit catches on.

So that’s what you get for almost $1500 ($797 for the jacket and $697 for the pants). That’s a lot of money for street-riding apparel, but less than a custom-made roadrace suit, and most riders only use theirs a few times a year. The Transit is an everyday leather suit that won’t look out of place on any bike from a vintage Triumph to a BMW GS to a GSX-R1000, or whatever it is you’ll be riding 10 years from now.

Aerostich/Rider WearHouse

800/222-1994

www.aerostich.com

Crystal 'Meh'

2009-02-16T10:42:00.000-08:00

Because of indifference, one dies before one actually dies.

-Elie Wiesel

About 40 years ago, researchers built the foundations of our glorious Internet, with the intent of creating a robust, reliable system to transmit data around the world and hasten scientific progress. Futurists of the ‘60s expected that our technocrats, aided by such technology, would cure cancer, establish colonies on other planets and provide stylish jumpsuits for every man, woman and child on Earth by the turn of the 21^st century.

Well, that hasn’t worked out as planned (where’s my ^&%$ jetpack?!), but porn is much better now, you can order pizza through your TV and we’re blessed with the word “meh.”

What is “meh?” First off, let’s get one thing straight: it’s not Yiddish. You’re thinking of “feh,” which conveys disgust and disdain. But our friend “meh” is something even more sinister. “Meh,” which actually made its way into the Collins English Dictionary last year, is an expression of indifference and uncaring. We Jews are too excitable and intrusive to even have a word for that concept. Meh’s origins are odd, with Lisa on The Simpsons credited with its first utterance in that context (previously the only usage was as the sound a goat makes).

Nowadays, the Web is a forest of “mehs.” New Kawasaki ZX-6R? Meh. Ben Spies wins yet another race? Meh. Britney Spears displays her genitals? Meh. Been there, done that, seen it all. Meh, meh, meh.

Oh ye who meh! How the rest of us tremble in the shadow of your omnipresent worldliness, where only the most extreme, outrageous and exotic experiences have any merit. That Internet has brought the world directly into our brains, so naturally the only way to filter that maelstrom of data is to just notice the superlative.

Well, that’s one theory. But as far as motorcycles go, I blame the Japanese.

Used to be we would slaver and quiver with the thought of a real 100-hp streetbike, no matter how heavy. If you wanted decent brakes and handling, you’d pretty much have to do that yourself, and if you wanted good tires, you needed a time machine. But then along came the CBR900RR, the ZX-9R, the YZF-R1 in the ‘90s, affordable machines with GP levels of performance. Then came cheap, grippy tires, then affordable, functional riding gear. Compared to what you could get in the ‘80s, 10 grand would get you a perfect riding experience, making a mediocre rider into a self-determined ‘expert’ in months, ready to “meh” at a moment’s notice.

So when Kawasaki’s multi-million dollar efforts at producing the perfect sportbike are met with a burbling whisper of “meh” on a thousand discussion boards, it has only itself and its sister Japanese OEMs to blame. The victims here would be other industry players who struggle to keep up with such leapfrogging ingenuity, only to get smacked with meh. Ducati builds a 1200cc V-Twin sportbike that makes as much power as a Japanese Inline-Four with a price differential that’s less than the purchasing-power difference between the Yen and the Euro? Meh, too expensive. BMW builds a competitive Superbike racer that will be sold to the public for about what a Yamaha YZF-R1 costs, despite the high price of doing business in Europe? Meh, it looks too much like a GSX-R.

An odd effect of meh-ism is that new riders seem more hardware focused than before. They don’t want a motorcycle. They want the fastest sportbike they can purchase; it’s okay if I start out on an R6, right? They don’t want to just get out there and experience life on two wheels: a Sportster is a girl’s bike, so I need a blinged-out, customized Road Glide. After all, we don’t want someone to turn the meh cannon on us.

I just took the MSF Basic RiderCourse. That’s right, after 20 years of riding, I took that 15-hour class so I could go on and get trained as an MSF RiderCoach. I’ll admit to having a bit of meh in me before I started, but I actually learned a thing or two, and I was even dinged some points on the final evaluation (stay away from the Rebel if you take that class!). I learned I don’t know everything and that I am far from perfection as a motorcyclist. That washed those traces of meh from my bloodstream.

So if you’ve added “meh” to your browser’s spellcheck dictionary, take it out. The world’s a big place and getting bigger, and you’ll never see it all.

Deglove with Love

2009-01-27T17:54:00.000-08:00

I decided to run this CityBike column from July, 2007 when I read a post on BARF underscoring the BARF concept of "ATTGATT": All The Gear, All the Time. That is, when you mount a motorcycle, dress for the worst possible crash, not for comfort or fashion.

OK, this month you need to drink a Bromo or something and sit somewhere warm and comfortable, because it’s serious gross-out time. Everything I’ve been taught as a moto-journalist tells me that I should accentuate the positive, deemphasize the negative, and chirp happily away about how the XYZ1000RR is two percent faster, 1.2 percent lighter, with .02 percent more torsional rigidity for maximum pleasure. Unfortunately, I had yet another life-changing experience lately, so I can’t really be that guy. At least not right now.

I was bombing up I-5 on a big-ass scooter of all things, zipping in and out of traffic at 70-plus MPH when an SUV (Ha! you say. Serves you right!) pulled onto the roadway in front of a car I was behind at the moment I turned my head to change lanes. Car slows down, Gabe and scooter do not. Crunch! I hit the pavement, sliding on my ass at about 60-70, feeling my butt get warm through my trusty Aerostich.

I’ll spare you the details about the aftermath, the people I hit, and getting a squirrel’s-eye view of I-5 on a busy Memorial Day weekend Saturday. Not so fun. Even less fun was riding a disfigured scooter another 150 miles with a massive bruise and swelling covering my lower back. I shouldn’t focus on that. I was incredibly lucky, after all.

In fact, not only was I lucky, I even got to meet Mr. Lucky. Well, actually, I met Dr. Andrew Slucky, a Kaiser spine surgeon who examined the CT scans of my spine and talked to me about my injury. Slucky told me I was very lucky, and who would know more about luck, even if he puts an ‘S’ in front of it?

I was lucky because I hit the ground with a relatively large and flat area (my ass and lower back), and lucky that nobody was following me too closely when I got off. I was lucky that I had lots of smooth, flat pavement to slide to a stop on, and I was lucky I stayed relaxed so I wouldn’t start to tumble. I was also lucky that I didn’t run into anything to cause a secondary trauma, which is where Dr. Slucky says the Bad Things happen, and he’s seen plenty of Bad Things as a trauma surgeon.

Oh you bet he has.

Take “Degloveing,” for instance. Your skin is bound to the muscle with just a thin layer of fat and whatnot, and severe friction applied to it will result in huge sheets of skin being stripped from the underlying tissue, just like a glove being pulled off. It’s one of those gruesome phenomena that happen often enough that there needs to be a name for it, like “necrophilia” or “Limbaugh.” But still...how often does it come up in conversation? Can you imagine the two EMTs at the water cooler? “Wow, Bill, you should have seen the degloveing we had last night! Wowee!”

Photo: This is what happens to the ass of an Aerostich contacting pavement at about 65 mph. What would it do to your skin? Answer: remove it completely!

Another pleasant tidbit from Dr. Slucky was the news that some bruising can be so deep and severe that it causes dangerous infections. And we haven’t yet discussed the effects of losing huge amounts of skin to garden-variety roadrash. They are all reminders of the fact that even the toughest human body imaginable—which is Keith Richards, if you’re wondering—is basically a six-foot stack of gelatinous matter supported by a slightly sturdier skeleton. But we’ve all known this since we first fell down and skinned our knees, haven’t we? Why am I even discussing it?

On that 150-mile ride home on my big purple ass, I passed a lot of other motorcyclists on I-5 and the 580, enjoying the almost perfect weather. Of course, almost none of them were wearing protective gear aside from helmets. When the debate is safety, we bicker about helmets, and that mystifies me. Of the 40 or so crashes I’ve had in 20 years, I’ve only scratched my helmet a few times, and many studies (but not all) are inconclusive about the effect helmets have on reducing head injuries. Much more important to reducing injury is abrasion and shock-resistant apparel.

Dr. Slucky told me I was lucky because I survived a 70-mph scooter crash with pretty minor injuries. I don’t think there was really that much luck involved; I just put on my Aerostich, boots, gloves and full-faced helmet thinking that this could be the day, because it could. It could be your day today, too. Are you going to be dressed for it?

Nichols Manufacturing Top-Triple Clamp Tool: You Can't Afford to Not Have One

2009-01-17T15:31:00.000-08:00

I am a cheap-ass mo-fo, I'm not afraid to admit it. But I'm not truly cheap. There's stuff I spend money on, but it's not the right stuff. I won't buy Johnnie Walker Red Label, for instance. Only Black will do. But when it comes to automotive tools, I have an ugly assortment of bargain-briced Kragen sockets, wrenches and other crap.

Which works for most things, but when it comes to taking the steering-head nut off the top triple clamp of my Ducati (this is the later-model nut that is on most Ducatis built after 1999...it's lightweight aluminum with holes drilled all around the edge and requires a special tool to remove/replace) there is nothing I can improvise to remove it. My biggest, rustiest vise-grips won't fit it, and using a pair of drywall screws as leverage points for a breaker bar was successful in removing it, but not without some collateral damage. Also, there's no way to set the proper torque spec, as the screws bend. Do not, under any circumstances, let me work on your motor vehicle, no matter how smart I sound.

What to do? Ducati dealers won't sell you that special tool, and if they did it would probably be the same price as a new Ducati. I went to see Mike at SF Moto to see if he had any ideas. He did not, other than to call Desmoto Sport, who told me to call Nichols Manufacturing, which I did.

On the line with Nichols, they told me they did have a tool, for $40. $40! shrieked my internal cheapskate. I sucked it up, telling my cheap-o side that it didn't have a choice, and I would drink some scotch to make up for it.

I was expecting a cheesy, stamped-metal made-in-China crude-but-effective thing for $40, but I was very wrong. What I got was something that is worth $40 even if you just want to drill a hole in it and wear it as a medallion. Solid billet aluminum, with stainless-steel pins and nice powder coating. "Nichols Mfg." and the phone number is even etched into the top of the tool. A very nice item.

I'll rent it to you for $10!

Hard Times: The Upside

2008-12-29T23:49:00.000-08:00

Strolling home with my lovely wife and our sass-pot friend Denise, I had a little epiphany. It seemed that most of the talk that evening at a friend's holiday party, indeed much of the small talk of the last few weeks is about the sensational bargains we're seeing at retailers in the midst of one of the worst holiday-shopping seasons on record. Kevin Cole 70% off...my swanky new moleskin blazer (which, I'm dissapointed to say, contains no actual mole) marked down to $26 from $99...bargains galore.

Part of the daily lineup outside the State Employment Service Office. Memphis, Tennessee. June 1938. Photographer: Dorothea Lange.

Suddenly, I realized why whenever you see photos of breadlines, souplines, unemployment lines, even strikes from the Great Depression everybody is dressed so snazzily: there must have been some tremendous bargains, especially on fedoras and straw boaters.

Power to Wait

2008-12-27T22:07:00.000-08:00

This column originally appeared on Motorcycle.com in March, 2007.

Remember Steve Forbes' bids for the presidency in 1996 and 2000? Remember how he would bleat out "flat tax" as the solution for all our economic woes?

There's a motorcycle equivalent to Forbes' unblinking lunacy; guys who insist having tiered licensing for motorcyclists -- a system that would restrict new riders to smaller-displacement machines until they develop their skills -- would somehow reduce the number of crashes.

Recently, the State of Washington investigated the increase in motorcycle crashes and fatalities over the last ten years. Their report is an interesting and quick read [pdf], but despite any mention in the report of displacement, one of our Motorcycle.com readers glanced over it and wrote that it "reads like a good argument for tiered licensing."
Did I miss something? The report cited "lane errors" (meaning the rider blew a corner), speeding and drinking as the vast majority of accident causes. Why do experienced motorcyclists that eschew helmet laws and other forms of government interference get all lovey-dovey over the idea of a tiered licensing structure that would similarly restrict rider choice?

Why are we so certain having a faster machine makes you more likely to crash? The new report's findings are substantially similar to those of the 25-year-old Hurt Report's. Alcohol and rider error were cited as main causes by both reports. What that really means is lack of rider training and common sense. In the Washington state report, 86 percent of the victims lacked formal training, where in the Hurt study it was 91 percent. Not much has changed since the Carter administration; helmets don't even provide that much more protection then they did 25 years ago, and people still insist on wearing bell bottoms.

The main thing that has changed is the attitude of consumers. Today the lowly SV650, with 70hp and about 410 pounds of wet weight is now considered a chick bike, even though each pony only has to push 5.8 pounds. Compare that to the 7:1 ratio of your typical early-`80s big-bore streetbike like a CB900F. Mr. First Time Buyer can finance a GSXR-1000 and be in charge of a cruise missile-like 2.7 pounds per horsepower. It sounds like that's the cause of rising fatality rates right there, but we still have to average in cruisers, the most-popular streetbike category. Even though power and displacement are up immensely, mellow tuning and plenty of lard means they don't accelerate that quickly, even if a middle-aged drunkard riding one has shaky command over 100-plus pound-feet of torque.

Gabe's Learning Curve is Steep!

Despite the fact that nobody cites any evidence to prove that there are more crashes because of the extra power, that's still the assumption. If we were all forced to ride Yamaha Jogs and Rebel 250s, we would probably still see similar crash rates, although there would admittedly be fewer fatalities and less-interesting crash stories. We all want to reduce fatalities, but the best protection for a motorcyclist is to avoid crashing in the first place. If a rider is untrained, will putting her on a smaller bike really make her less likely to crash? Since I have no idea how to fly an airplane, I'll crash an ultralight just as fast as I'll crash an F-117, although the F-117 crash would probably create a more dramatic explosion.

A Neanderthal could look at the evidence and see the majority of fatalities are self-styled action heroes who buy motorcycles without getting proper training, or jackasses who think they can handle drinking and riding. That's regardless of displacement, brand, weather, time of day or any other factor. Tiered licensing merely moves the onus of safety from the riders to manufacturers and dealers. But how does tiered licensing make new riders get proper training? How does it make sure Bob doesn't stop for happy hour before he rides back home?

How does it ensure he will leave the house wearing something more protective than a plastic yarmulke and scrotum-exposing Bermuda shorts?

If some of you had your way, we'd all be riding these.

Like helmets, tiered licensing wouldn't lessen the number of crashes. Instead, it would merely mitigate the effects. If motorcyclists could somehow muster the discipline to not drink and ride as well as attend the MSF course before they purchase their dream machines, the crash rate -- as well as the numbers of fatalities -- would be so much lower that helmet laws wouldn't even be an issue. The number of lives saved by helmets in a state like Washington would be measured in dozens rather than hundreds. More people than that are killed hitting their heads after slipping in the shower.

Rather than talking about the dangers of power-to-weight, we should be encouraging the power to wait. Wait until you've been trained to ride your motorcycle. Wait until you get home to have a beer. Wait until you've racked up some experience before you speed on a twisty road. Accepting tiered licensing would work to limit our choices as consumers and perpetuate myths and stereotypes about motorcycles being dangerous, uncontrollable machines. Training and promoting motorcycle awareness are the keys to keeping us and our sport alive.

The Death of B.J. Mough

2008-12-19T12:52:00.000-08:00

This is what happened one Monday evening in Athens, Georgia:

Two teenage girls were in a Nissan Sentra, waiting at a traffic signal to exit the Target parking lot. A guy on a 2007 Kawasaki 250 Ninja shares the lane with them as the light turns green, cutting in between the girls and a van as they turned left on to the main arterial back to their house.

We don’t know how they reacted—not really, anyway. According to the older sister’s testimony, they were annoyed at his rude behavior and may have made a rude gesture in return. He sped away down the road, but they passed him. He passed them back, passing in the suicide lane and then cutting them off as he sped away. At some point the older sister called her mom…there’s a crazy guy on a motorcycle following us!

He won’t leave us alone! What do we do? The mom tells her husband: the girls are in trouble, go get your gun.

A few miles later, as they reach the intersection where they turn off the main road to get back to their house, they see the guy on his motorcycle, waiting to turn left at the intersection where they were turning right. They again flipped him the ol’ bird as they turned right, but this time the bluff was called: the scary biker, clad in a full-face helmet and space-age moto-armor turned his bars, gunned his motor and headed after them. He charged up the road, pulling alongside the

girl’s car in the opposite lane. Maniac!

The girl’s panic reached a head when he raised his arm in a threatening gesture. The older sister cut a hard left turn, cutting the motorcyclist off so violently his bike scraped the driver’s side of the Sentra before he careened out-of-control onto a lawn as the car sped off towards home. They screeched through the neighborhood and made

a hard left into their driveway and bolted to their rooms. Meanwhile, dad had his .40-caliber handgun locked and loaded and was waiting at the end of the driveway. The Ninja came growling down the street, turned around, came back.

Photo: Athens Banner-Herald

Witnesses—the girls, the wife and the neighbors—heard two gunshots, then a third. When the sheriffs and EMTs got to the scene, they found the motorcyclist—21-year-old Bryan “B.J.” Mough (say “mao”)—dying from a gunshot wound and dad telling them he fired in self defense.

The dad, 46-year-old Richard Gear, was charged with murder. The case went to trial in November, covered in meticulous detail by the Athens Banner-Herald.

We learned a lot of things: Gear had probably waved his gun and fired “warning shots” at people in front of his house in at least one prior incident. Mough’s Ninja wasn’t headed towards Gear when he fired; he was just riding up and down the street near the Gear house. The eldest Gear sister, Samantha, gave surprisingly candid testimony that makes you wonder why she felt so threatened. And if she did, why did she call her trigger-happy parents instead of 911?

B.J. Mough is the guy who could really answer our questions, as Gear and his family probably lied their asses off in court. Did B.J. road-rage? Or were the girls road-raging on him, goading him into chasing them home to gun-crazed dad? Or did he just want their insurance info for banging up his bike? Was he charging Richard Gear on his 249cc death-missile? Or did he not even see Gear as he stood in his tree-shrouded driveway?

Thanks to the miracle of the system of tubes we call the Internets, you can follow the whole drama, and it makes you realize how anonymity is dying along with newspapers, AM radio and deep-frying. B.J.’s pre-death discourse with his motorcycle buddies is online for all to see (at blokessportbike.com), videotaped testimony from the trial is on the Athens Banner-Herald’s website, and you can get on the MSN Live website and see, with detailed aerial photography, the entire route of the chase and eventual shooting.

Nobody, including myself, really understands why riding motorcycles is so special and liberating. B.J. might have an idea, and you might also. But I know one family of Georgia suburbanites whose misconception of motorcycles, motorcycling and motorcyclists (mixed with a healthy dose of good ol’ American shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later stupidity) contributed to the death of one of our own.

Go here to check out the Athens Banner-Herald's outstanding coverage of the trial.

BJ's introductory post to Bloke's Sportbike Forum:

Hey guys figured this be the best place to start ^^.

The name is bryan and on the net i am know as Fenix. I only started riding a biike about 3 months ago and never even riden a dirt bike before then. I had a desire to learn a skil and BAM , just like with my high learning curve with Computers i learned to the most extent of what i think it is to ride a bike. I hope to learn a hell of alot more and meet some new freinds along the way for the ride.

Some quick info about me:

I am a computer guy, i build , repair and fix networks. I am also a Anime Freak, so if im not riding my bike or on my computer doing who knows what , ill be watching Anime or attending a local convention as one of my Favorite characters. I am a Japaneese enthusiast so i like all things of Eastern Culture and my room is lined with swords ^^.(l love shinny things)

Other then im a crazy person as my parents would say im the only one in the family who has enough balls to ride a motorcycle and the only one in the family to do so in the past 50 years or so.

Hope to get to know the locals and everyone else in between. ^^

nice to meet ya

Fenix Airilius Solen (if you figure out were i got the middle name from your a Genius )

Here's B.J.'s forum signiture (cribbed from a video game's theme song lyrics, but moving nonetheless):

"What was the start of all this?

When did the cogs of fate begin to turn?

Perhaps it is impossible to grasp that answer now,
From deep within the flow of time...
But, for a certainty, back then,
We loved so many, yet hated so much,
We hurt others and were hurt ourselves...
Yet even then, we ran like the wind,
Whilst our laughter echoed,
Under cerulean skies..."

Ride hard , live long, injoy your Freedom , and never look back

Ask Gabe: Should I Buy a Used Helmet?

2008-12-14T11:38:00.000-08:00

This picture of a crash-damaged Quantum is off the Arai website; the rider took out a street sign with his head. He doesn't remember much of that day, but he suffered no permanent injuries. I'm guessing he's a lifetime Arai customer!

I read this question on BARF, and thought my reply would be useful to post for the fans of my Blog, in case there are any.

Given the economy right now, I'm watching every dollar I spend (working for a startup right now is a bit hairy...). That being said, I'm debating if I should buy a new helmet or if a pre-owned (never crashed, good condition) helmet is worth it. I'm a bit hesitant to buy a used one, but given how much money you can save, it'd seems stupid to not consider it. Anyone have good or bad experiences buying used?

Most of the other BARF posters hated the idea of buying a used helmet to the point of silliness. The poster wasn't asking if he should buy a fucked-up, shitty, smelly, dipped-in-pigshit helmet, but about buying used in general.

First off, is the helmet clean and well-maintained? If it looks and smells clean, what's the problem? Nobody ever died from cooties. I wasn't even worried about them in 6th grade.

Second, look for signs of obvious damage. If there are any bad scratches or scuffs on the shell, (other than little nicks from rock chips or rub marks from hanging on a bike or just being bounced around in a closet), you should probably pass. BUT: blows to a helmet, even severe ones, sometimes don't show up on the shell, as the quality of paint and shell are so good from companies like Shoei and Arai. So remove or gently pull back the comfort liner (one reason not to buy a helmet with a non-removable liner) and look for signs of compression in the EPS lining. And if the helmet has been painted or "customized" in ANY way, pass! Just like customized sportbikes, a likely reason for painting a helmet is to cover crash damage.

Finally, look at the manufacture date. Some helmets have it embossed on the safety strap, others have a sticker in the shell somewhere. If it's more than 5 years old, it really is worthless, and not a good deal at any price, unless you know for a fact it spent some portion of that time in a sealed box in a climate-controlled warehouse.

But many posts brought up a good point: with so many excellent $100 (and less) helmets on the market, why bother buying used?

Why I hate Google

2008-11-30T16:45:00.001-08:00

So I subscribe to Google Alerts for "Motorcycle" and "Motorbike" so I can get hot stories up on Motorcycle Daily. Of course, what I usually get (and this is why I quit subscribing to that a while ago) is every story about a motorcycle fatality or serious injury. Most of the times they are predictable: H-D riders with no helmets "thrown from their motorcycles" and dying.

This alert was different:

Woman Killed In Motorcycle Accident
WYFF - Greenville,SC,USA
LAURENS COUNTY, SC -- A 21-year-old woman was killed in a motorcycle accident Saturday afternoon. A Laurens County deputy coroner said that Crystal Bryant ...
http://www.wyff4.com/news/18172317/detail.html

I did a little internet digging and discovered Crystal was a broadcasting student visiting with her family for Thanksgiving. She went trail-riding with her dad on Friday--he just got her a KDX200--and she ripped on out ahead of him.

Crystal was a real go-getter: surfing (she suffered a wicked back injury doing that, and had a huge scar along her spine to go with her various tattoos and piercings), skateboarding, fast cars, whatever. She'd been riding since she was 5 or so.

Out of sight, Crystal crashed somewhere on the trail and her dad came across her lifeless body. He administered CPR but to no avail. She was wearing full gear, according to the coroner's office.

Sounds like she was a little wild, but just managed to have a freak occurance. Very sad. And that's why I wish I didn't have to subscribe to Google Alerts.

RIP, Crystal.

Strife Continues in Vulcanistan

2008-11-12T18:48:00.000-08:00

Vulcan City, Vulcanistan (AP) After four years of bloody struggle in this remote, wind-swept nation, U.N. peacekeeping troops are at last maintaining a tenuous truce among the warring tribes that roam the steppes on their gleaming motorcycles. But distrust and resentment still run deep among the fiercely proud people that populate the high plains of this barren land. Although the two main tribes—the Nomads and the Ell’tees—both ride large-displacement Kawasaki Vulcan cruiser motorcycles, a deep rift has formed between them based on styling and luggage preferences.

“They are savages,” says Allen Dinkins, a member of the Nomad tribe, as he surveys the wreckage of an Ell’tee tribe caravan he has just ambushed with his raiding party. “Look at the saddlebags on their motorcycles: leather! We spit on them.” During the raid, Dinkin’s small band surprised the group of Ell’tee riders as they slowed to avoid grinding down their floorboards in a sharp turn. They then used Soviet-era machine guns and grenade launchers to mow down their hapless victims. The carnage was horrible: blood-streaked tassels and conchos were scattered along the road, mixed with human body parts and shattered souvenir shot glasses. The Nomad tribesmen, clad in their distinctive brightly-colored nylon riding gear and flip-up helmets, swarmed through the carnage, gathering food, spare parts and unused postcards from their victims.

The Ell’tee village a few miles away is peaceful, even picturesque. Women dressed in traditional black leather chaps and long-sleeved T-shirts sew saddlebags and prepare barbequed tri-tip as children chase each other on homemade toy motorcycles. Robert Krause, the village Ride Captain, speaks of the difficulties they have had under the oppressive, brutal rule of the Nomads. “We are a simple people, with our leather saddlebags and decorative conchos. And we would love to have locking, weatherproof saddlebags like the infidel Nomads do. But God commands us to use leather for our luggage. Is that a reason to torture and kill us?”

Vulcanistan has always been a wild, violent country, but the real troubles began in 1951, when the British ended their 175-year occupation of the country, leaving behind hundreds of ancient dispatch motorcycles. The travelling bands—“nomads”—adopted two-wheeled travel quickly, living a life of peaceful leisure as they rode the thousands of miles of winding roads constructed by Royal Army engineers. Although the advent of reasonably priced and stylish Japanese cruisers improved the standard of living for many Vulcanastanis, rising fuel prices and the closure of a popular chain of all-you-can-eat barbeque buffets created internal conflicts that led to the fall of the U.S.-backed dictator Al Johnson in 1971. This prompted the invasion and 18-year occupation by Soviet forces in 1973.

During the Soviet era, the more progressive Nomad minority—whose abandonment of the traditional leather luggage and conchos made them heretics to “true” Vulcastanis like the Ell’tees—seized the reins of power after a Red Army-backed coup overthrew the theocratic government of Pope Bob Mustafa, jr. After suffering terrible losses, the Soviets left in 1988, leaving the Nomads in charge. Since then, the Nomad regime, led by former accountant Steve “The Terrible” Foreman, has been brutal and repressive enough to attract the attention of Human Rights Watch, the U.N. and oddly, the National Association of Chiropractic Professionals. Internationally monitored elections in 2004 and the presence of an 8,000-strong U.N. peacekeeping force have reduced, but not ended, the violence: 23 Ell’tees were killed last week and 57 were injured when a bomb exploded on a charity fun run. Two days later, an Ell’tee suicide bomber detonated himself at a Nomad rally, killing several bystanders and injuring dozens more with flying shards of fiberglass, Lexan and other high-quality factory-installed accessories.

U.N. officials acknowledge the continuing problems but are hopeful a solution. Brigadier General Sir Alan Cathcart, commander of the multinational peacekeeping force acknowledges peace is elusive but is hopeful. “The media focuses too much on conflict. For every 50 Ell’tees shot execution-style, there are thousands that aren’t.”

For the soldiers patrolling the dangerous wastelands that link the large towns, the view is more pragmatic. Mike D’Angelo, a U.S. soldier attached to the U.N. mission surveyed the blackened, rusting hulks of heavyweight cruisers abandoned by the side of the winding road to Vulcan City from the roof of his armored vehicle. “Dude, I don’t know what their problem is,” said the 19-year-old soldier. “Why don’t they just get cars?”

I want to thank my pal Steve Natt for giving me the idea for this column, which he did when we were discussing his coverage of Kawasaki's 2008 dealer convention. I was confused by the difference between Kawasaki's Vulcan 1600 Nomad and Vulcan 1700 Classic LT, which are both "baggers," factory-accesorized cruisers equipped with windscreens, saddlebags and passenger backrests. Hilarity ensues. Or not.

There’s Nothing Wrong with Germans

2008-11-08T12:56:00.000-08:00

From San Francisco's CityBike, October 2007

Traveling in Germany is great. The country is clean, filled with friendly--albeit humorless--people. The toilets have self-cleaning seats and the trains run on time. In fact, everything runs on time and functions properly.

It’s equally pleasant as a motorcyclist. The roads are in excellent condition, and the scenery ranges from picture-book villages that could export quaint to incredibly steep, snow-capped granite peaks. I just spent a week there, first covering a big motorcycle rally in Bavaria and then enjoying a few days touring the Tyrolian Alps. Even though it rained the entire time (which meant I had to explain why my crotch was wet from my Aerostich suit every time we stopped) I had a pretty good time, drinking gallons of wonderful beer and consuming enough delicious pork to de-kosher half of Tel Aviv while seeing incredible sights and enjoying a great motorcycle. I just wish the Germans hadn’t exterminated six million Jews.

I didn’t think it would bother me on this trip. The German people have owned up to their atrocities in a manner that--as far as I know--no other group of people has. They’ve paid millions, if not billions of dollars in reparations and have educated their children about the realities of state-sponsored murder for decades. It’s actually illegal to be a Nazi (or a Scientologist, because the Germans sensibly figure they could get carried away too) and aside from a very small number of troubled idiots and losers, they acknowledge that what happened was their fault, was wrong, and they will try to not let it happen again. We as Americans could learn a thing or two from the Germans about learning from mistakes, if we ever learn how to admit to making mistakes.

And so for most of the trip, I hardly gave all that stuff more than a passing thought. But in Munich, I saw a sign that read “Dachau 16 km.” It’s still a town, people still live there. But how can they still live there? How can you write that as your return address on your Christmas cards? How can you tell people you live there? Why does the German department of roadsigns (in German: Deustcheroadsignendepartmenten) even put the sign up? Why would you want to go there?

As I thought about it, I realized it wasn’t just Dachau. It was everybody, everything, everywhere I looked. Those orderly Bavarian villages, the excellent roads, the way everything from toilet seats to subway stations are beautifully engineered weren’t charming characteristics of an elegantly organized society, but reminders that people--these people--turned mass extinction into another expensive government project. Those scenic roads and charming farmhouses were there in 1944 as millions of human beings were being disposed of like chickens infected with Avian Flu.

Leaving the country I handed my passport to a German policeman. I was rushing to make a connecting flight and stepped up to the window before he was done with another traveler. “Please wait your turn,” he said, in clipped, perfect English. Yes, sir! I waited for him to wave me forward, and when he did, he stared at me as he motioned for my papers, staring at me with his pale green eyes. His face was handsome and impassive, with a strong, broad chin and high cheekbones. His hair was a spiky, straw-blonde crewcut. He asked me a few questions about my visit in an disinterested tone, fixing me with a dispassionate gaze.

Was that how his grandfather the SS concentration camp guard stared at the shivering, nude figures during the selektions? How his grossmutti shrugged when she had to find a new gynecologist, ophthalmologist and greengrocer in the same week? Or how Himmler looked over the reams of reports documenting the liquidation of millions of innocents? Like they were observing insects, a temporary problem?

I’m paranoid. It’s likely I’d look at people the same way from that booth after months or years on the job. He could also just be representing that creepy sort of cop that goes into law enforcement because he likes to beat the crap out of people. It’s unfair of me to pick on the fish-in-a-barrel subject of Why the Germans Killed the Jews. Is it a crime to be a good-looking, square-jawed cop?

But being stabbed by those uncaring, bored, pale-green eyes, set in that tanned, handsome face filled me with fear and dread anyway. I was glad to get on the plane.

Smugmobiles

2008-10-25T14:51:00.000-07:00

This column first appeared in Citybike in April, 2006

Of all the car buyers out there, eighty percent of the herd subscribes to the “safety in numbers” theory and chooses to not be noticed. For the other 20 percent, the auto industry has stepped in with a solution. In the last 10 years, a small number of cars, trucks and SUVs have bounced onto the market with freakish body shapes designed to allow the consumer some pre-packaged individuality. The Volkswagen New Beetle was a pioneer, but it was followed by cars like the Mini, the PT Cruiser and the weird and ugly HHR from GM.

As offensive as some of these designs are, no vehicle advertises “I’m an asshole” in quite the same way as the Hummer H2. This hideous monstrosity is actually a fake, a Chevrolet Suburban with a fantasy body kit. Under the skin, it has about as much in common with a military HMMWV (nobody who has actually been in the military says “hummer” unless they are requesting oral sex) as Bruce Willis does with Mohandas Ghandi. It’s of limited value off-road and has less interior room than a lot of minivans. It’s also ridiculously expensive at $53,000.

What are Hummer owners paying a premium for? Image. An image that says, “look at me, I know this vehicle is making you angry, and I’m going to drive it anyway. Because negative attention is at least some kind of attention.” Usually with these rolling psychology experiments having three tons of ugly chrome and plastic isn’t enough; the subject has to add some kind of other touch to piss off anybody to the left of George Wallace. Look for “support our troops” ribbons, “Bush-Cheney ’04” bumper stickers and maybe even one of those fake chrome propellers in the trailer hitch.

They know how enraged their vehicle makes other drivers, yet they freely and proudly drive them around. The joke’s on them, of course; they depreciate faster than sushi and guzzle gas like Ted Kennedy at a scotch tasting. Only an inflated sense of smugness could explain such behavior.

This level of sanctimonious prickery is only matched by the Prius driver. Oh, Prius driver, did you think you would get off so easily? You’re just as smug and guilty of wasting resources in the name of vanity as Dittohead Hummer guy.

A hybrid car like the Prius uses an incredible amount of resources to manufacture. Bigger batteries, more plastic, more electronics; they all add up. Making stuff like plastic, aluminum and nickel-hydride uses billions of gallons of water and thousands of megawatts of energy. That takes fossil fuel – natural gas, oil and coal – and raw materials. In the end, building a Prius instead of a Hummer H2 might have a slightly smaller impact, but not much. It doesn’t matter if you strip mine for GM or Toyota, you’re still left with a big hole. Compare the total environmental impact — including mining the materials, shipping the car, driving it and servicing it for 10 years, and then dismantling and disposing of the waste -- of a Prius against a Honda Civic and you might not feel so green.

This kind of smug eliteism is akin to those advocates of organic farming who can somehow afford to spend six bucks for a pound of tomatoes at Whole Foods. Not everybody can afford a soymilk and boca-burger diet; just like not everbody can afford to spend an extra ten grand to save $400 a year on gas.

The militantly smug Prius folks know their purchases irritate those who buy less fuel-efficient vehicles. They rub it in by adding stereotypical bumper stickers exhorting us to save whales, harp seals, Tibet, or Al Gore. They drive with the smugness of one who is convinced that they have found their cake and can eat it as well. Too bad that when you factor in purchase price, depreciation, maintenance and other factors, a Prius owner will only save about $500 over the life of the car compared to the owner of a Corolla.

The worst thing about any smugmobile is that it is government subsidized. Hummers enjoy the equipment depreciation write-off that is reserved for heavier trucks and SUVs, and the Prius (as well as other hybrids) gets to take advantage of not just a generous tax credit, but also use carpool lanes with just a single occupant in California.

Of course, the smugness of Prius and Hummer owners pales in comparison to the smugness of the motorcyclist. Nothing stands out in traffic like a motorcycle does, and we’re so used to getting 40-plus miles per gallon that we actually do stuff to make it worse, like re-jetting carbs or changing our gearing. That’s why I don’t need a Prius to tell people I’m a hypocrite. From the sound of my open Remus exhaust they can tell from miles away.

Why I Hate America

2008-10-23T22:36:00.000-07:00

I can understand why conservative ying-yangs like Sarah Palin and that crazy lady at the McCain rally who said Obama was an Arab think we liberals hate America. We certainly hate a lot of American stuff, like Winnebagos and frozen pizza and pro wrestling, while liking a lot of foreign stuff like Volvos, Le Creuset bakeware and Yoga.

One thing lefties have always stayed away from are American-built vehicles. In my family of liberal Jews, owning an American car would have elicited an intervention (exception: my Grandpa Carl, who had a pathological attachment to Oldsmobiles. Perhaps the siren song of crushed velour...) I don't really understand why, anymore than I understand why Temecula and Roseville are seemingly populated only by enormous 4 X 4 pickup trucks. It's just what people do.

So if you are a conservative reading this, allow me to be predictable by hopping up and down with excitement at the thought of not one, not two, but all three of the US automakers going bankrupt by the end of 2009. Hopefully, the factories will be used for something productive and the autoworkers--among the last union jobs in America--will be employed in a different industry, hopefully making solar panels or wind turbines.

Why will I be so happy to see them go? Hey, I grew up watching Dukes of Hazard and the wife and I own (or are at least happily upside-down on) a Ford Focus, which is a pretty frigging good car for the money, if I say so myself. Also, my best pal Kenyon runs a most impressive site chronicling all things Chrysler Imperial. So I have a love for the heritage of Detroit Iron.

But since the mid-70s, the leadership of these companies has been so greedy, so stupid, so duplicitous--to the public, to their workers, to their shareholders--that those companies (pale shells of the companies that won WWII and invented tail fins and the muscle car) deserve to just die quiet, whimpering deaths.

They had their chances, dozens of them. The Clinton administration gave them billions to develop hybrids almost 15 years ago. Toyota and Honda did it--without government subsidy! Electric car? GM did it, then crushed them all when the State of California yielded to lobbyist pressure to end its zero-emissions mandate. Big 3's solution to global warming, the war in Iraq and the end of cheap oil? Lie to the public and bully and bribe the government to pretend there's no problem.

Well, guess what? Party's over. No more subsidies, no more bailouts, no more buyouts from suckered European companies. The end is near, dinosaurs. At 40, I'm used to the companies coming to the brink of death, then getting bailed out, only to return to their shitty ways after making one or two decent cars.

It will be a sign of the times, and maybe a wake-up call to Americans that things have changed, forever, and we're not going back.

Hey Mr. W Sticker!

2008-10-22T11:12:00.000-07:00

This is a little blast from those glorious days of 2004.

Hey, guy with the W sticker on your truck. Yes, I’m talking to you. I notice you look like you might be between the ages of 18 and 42. I can also tell by the way you carry yourself, or by your facial hair, that you are not in the military right now.

Follow me to the nearest US Armed Forces Recruiting Center. I’ll make sure you’re introduced to a recruiter from a branch of your choice. Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines or Coast Guard, they are all fine institutions with proud and glorious histories. I’m sure you support them as you have that inevitable yellow ribbon magnet you bought at Wal-Mart alongside your “W” sticker. And there’s no better way to support our troops than to take a place alongside them in Iraq or Afghanistan. A lot of these folks have spent very little time with their families over the last three years and would love for you to take a spell in their Humm-v or bunker so they can go home for a while.

What? You don’t want to join the military? I don’t understand! Since you left that sticker on your car, you must be proud of your choice for president in 2004, and you must fully support his policy of fighting a global “war” on terrorism with an all-volunteer military, right? And you know that the military can only meet its recruiting goals now by lowering its quotas, which means the military is experiencing a severe manpower shortage right now. Do you support our troops or not?

You have a bad knee, huh? Oh, and a bad back, too? Well, I don’t see a handicap placard hanging from your mirror, and it looks like you get yourself around pretty good. There are plenty of soldiers in right now with very severe injuries and handicaps. Some are even mission limbs. Just lie on your entry physical. That’s what recruiters are telling folks to do, anyway. As long as you can walk in a straight line and run for more than two miles, I’m sure you’ll be fine.

Oh, you have kids, huh? So do most of the people in the military right now! Are you more important than they are? Is your fatherhood somehow more valuable than the hundreds of thousands of fathers (and mothers) serving right now? Most of the moms and dads fighting your war for you would rather be here in the Target parking lot arguing with me, I’m sure.

You say you are really needed in your job? About 60% of the people fighting your war for you are reservists. They were taken from their jobs and from college so they could supposedly make YOU safer. Ironically, many local fire and police departments are understaffed because of troop deployments, which I think would hamper local communities efforts dealing with natural disasters and terrorist attacks. Federal law will ensure you are re-hired when you get back, with the same wages and benefits.

It just sounds to me like you don’t want to go fight in this Global Struggle Against Violent Extremism. Does that mean it’s not important to you? I mean, if you don’t go to fight this war, who is supposed to fight and risk their life in your place? Me? I’ll go, but I think everybody who thought this was a good idea and supported the war and the president should go first. Then there should be a draft, and if I’m selected, I’ll go. But you first, please.

Our soldiers in Vietnam felt abandoned by the American people because they were fighting an unpopular war. And if you’re a soldier in the field, it doesn’t matter if people back home are ideologically opposed to the war or just apathetic about the whole thing. Out of the millions of military-aged men and women who both voted for George W. Bush, and by extension, this endless War on Terror, only a tiny, tiny percentage of them joined the military to participate in their war. What kind of message does this send to our troops? If you ask me, it’s a worse one than one of active opposition. At least the antiwar movement has an opinion.

Here’s the message I see from chickenhawks like you: only a sucker actually fights in a war. Ha, ha! Or how about this: I’m much more important and indispensable than the idiots who actually were dumb enough to go fight this war. Here’s another one: you guys go fight this war...I’ll be right behind you, as soon as it’s over.

Obviously, I’m against the war. I was firmly against it before it started. I thought it was just about the worst possible avenue for our foreign policy, and I grieve for a generation of servicemembers who will come home damaged, spiritually, psychologically and physically. War is an ugly thing. It’s personal and viscous. It destroys on many levels. To ask someone to fight in a war you are unwilling to fight in yourself is cowardly and wrong. It’s like asking someone to care for your sick relative, or to clean up your vomit. To have to inform people of this fact reveals a level of ethical bankruptcy I didn’t even think existed. It’s like asking a friend to donate a kidney to your mom when you have a perfectly good one you could spare.

You have three options, in my mind. One, you can join the military. If you don’t want to get your delicate and oh-so-valuable body injured, try to join a branch where you will probably not be exposed to too much personal risk, like the Navy or Air Force. Two, you can join the peace movement and support our troops by getting them home, out of harm’s way.

Three? You can move to another country. Move to a country where it’s acceptable for the fortunate and well-off to send young men and women to die for their whimsical decisions. We don’t need or want your kind here.