WetLeather Motorcycle Rider Information

...IQ test.

Greetings from scenic Bothell, a veritable wonderland of soft white
snow and festive red taillights.

It simply could have been poor timing when I decided to shoot over to
Redmond, on cold but dry roads, for some quick afternoon biz. Hey,
I'd be running against traffic on the return trip, yes? Should have
returned an hour sooner . . .

Buzzing back along 520, I ran into a nasty clot of automotive
phlebitis, well short of the floating-for-now bridge. Fine -- I
turned right to employ the northbound diamonds on 405, which moved
right along for half a mile until I ran under the second-worst
hailstorm I've ever ridden through north of the Mason-Dixon line.
Thanks be to God for a round of greased ball bearings on the house,
but it didn't last more than about three miles (figure forty minutes),
until I popped through the other side into the last feeble daybeams
over dry roads. We'uns accelerated fiercely up to about 30 per, and I
knew right then I would make it back to Lake Forest Park. I recited
my mantra with religioius conviction: "Don't crash Donn's bike.
Don't crash Donn's bike. Don't crash . . ."

The blizzard didn't start for another five miles or so.

You can delude yourself that it's do-able for awhile, especially
before you put the outriggers down. But when the feet go down, the
sign assures you it's dropping through 31 Fahrenheit and the traffic's
got another coupla hours in it, it's time to bail. Especially when
you nixxed the Gore-Tex as you went out the door to take advantage of
a "glory hole" (no Truman -- NO! Get that outta my head, you bad
man!) in the weather, sure that you'd be back to your 1977 Ardbeg
before 1) the clouds split like a rotten pinata; 2) it got dark and
Freakin' ColdTM.

Then comes the realization that the tires have more traction than your
formerly waterproof, GoreTex Bellevue boots (pre-seasoned with Tal
'Afar-ian street sewage). Thank you, Herr Metzeler! But there are
four pounds of glop frosting on the windshield, and another six pounds
on your arms (all hail the house god of Langlitz, for it is He who
graces mine underlayers with dryness). And the tires have no traction
at all . . .

Vehicle secured as far off-road as pushable, it was time for Plan
Beta, which initially involved walking rapidly and cussing in an
informal and relaxed fashion. "Hey," I thouight, "I still kick a
little ass on this forced-march stuff." Headed back toward the bright
lights of Bothell, helmet donned at all times for the full-on alien
invader effect, I stopped at the fruit stand for a quick phone call.
Good luck with that: "CONGESTION." The hippie chick in the rubber
waders was gracious enough about use of the land line that I briefly
considered buying a Christmas tree. I also briefly considered pulling
her young co-workers out of their Nissan Shitbasket and rubbing their
faces in the snow like bad puppies, after they nearly brodied me into
the next dimension while I crossed the driveway.

God is my co-pilot -- albeit with an annoying sense of humor and a
basket of lessons I'd rather not learn (I've been a hardhead for a
LONG time, thankyaverramuch). My most-wonderful-stepmother, who sells
insurance out of a little office in Bothell, was still in her command
chair, looking out her window over the 522 and muttering to herself.
After finally getting in touch with her, I set out to stompin' in the
last mile and a half.

Standing on a corner, waiting on the light in my only hat (Quantum
IV), a twenty-something punk-ass yelled, "Tough luck, kid!," I
unfortunately administered soggy but reflexive sign language before I
thought, "Kid...? Huh..."

Dumb story short: we are sitting here, warm and dry, with a dinner of
Thai food leftovers under our belts and sipping a very acceptable
Sonoma zinfandel. The girl who rents a work room from Iova and was a
little startled to see me stumble up the stairs in a
17-lbs-o'-white-stuff, full-face Arai has gone out for popcorn and
hygiene items (walking distance, she lives! And yet took the SUV).
She was happy that I put chains on a stuck minivan in yonder
intersection, and I am happy that she rents space here in order to
pursue her business as a professional masseuse, because I am utterly
cudgeled. Hopping down the stairs to throw chains on the van, I was
reminded why I really don't kick much road-marching ass anymore: there
are bayonets in my ankles these days.

But there's a couch here and happy people (on an adventure!) and wine
and popcorn and . . . well, I might be a little late to work tomorrow.
Manyana time now, baby! My stepma harmonizes like an angel,
everybody knows the Christmazeltov songs, and we got time to work
those riffs.

AARs should always end with "lessons learned," so here are a couple:

1) I am an idiot. Redundant lesson learned all over again, doubtless
not for the last time.

2) People bored by traffic will punch up random digits on their cell
phones and zone out for hours. Yes, in the snow.

3) Snow riding is TIRING, Jeff Earls is some kind of god, and I am no
Icehole so watch your f-in' language, mister.

4) Honking at the person who is stuck going uphill ahead of you sure
does help. A lot. Really.

5) Keep the truck battery charged, dumbass!

6) I am one lucky sumbitch so far, and practically immune to my own
surging lunacies.


Jack, so glad not to be pecking this out with my tongue from Evergreen Hospital

--
Jack Lewis
Jaxworx Productions