On The Mark

I wish this was strictly about motorcycles, but like a lot of my stuff, it isn’t: it’s about the creatures who ride motorcycles, one in particular. The people who teach writing say that you should write about that which you know best; consequently, the “one” to which I refer is me. I’m in my early sixties and I retired last year, so I should be riding all the time. I no longer have to worry about how much vacation I’m burning to gallivant on two wheels and this year I’ve done my fair share, with two bicycle race jobs and the Backroads Spring Break. The problem isn’t the time off – it’s Father Time. The old man tallied up my years and decided certain of my parts are either beyond or are nearing the end of their useful lives.

The biggest annoyance right now is a torn left rotator cuff and labrum that I thought had been calmed last year with a huge needle full of lidocaine and cortisone and a lengthy regimen of physical therapy, but apparently my spring riding angered the inflammation gods. Those jerks stick together, so the right rib I tweaked riding (actually, crashing) offroad last October is joining the chorus, along with a couple other places, including the opposite shoulder with the broken collarbone and the elbow I broke in the same bicycle race wreck 34 years ago. Funny/not funny how every time I see an orthopedist, they sing the chorus “you’re gonna have arthritis from this.” I’m waiting for the ticking time bomb of the knee I blew out to join the fun.

In thinking about this – also known as sitting around feeling sorry for myself – I realized that I am like a bike you see on eBay or Marketplace. You know the kind: the ones where the ad says “it ran when I parked it” or “just needs some TLC.” I can imagine the ad that could be placed for me: “Vintage machine in decent condition, has been down a couple times but nothing serious, runs pretty good, sometimes a little temperamental, worn chain and sprockets, OK tires, brakes could use a flush but work fine, couple paint scuffs, just needs a little TLC.” In the parlance of used bike sellers, I hope I am a “classic that needs some work” or something to that effect and not a “clunker” or “ratbike.” I have pretty high standards for the material condition of my machines, so I may tend to be more critical than I should.

Life would be so much simpler if I could bite the bullet and replace the part(s). I just got a new clutch in the RT, replacing it before it failed completely. Come to think of it, that’s the model that Betsy is using, with two new shoulders and a knee. The problem is that the cost of human parts replacement is high and the ensuing recovery is lengthy. If you think BMW parts are expensive, try pricing a hip, shoulder, or knee job. Plus, you can ride a clutch job on a bike immediately following without thrice-weekly rehab visits and the ensuing daily “homework.” Instead, my body is what our British friends call a “bodge-job,” literally held together with screws and figuratively with bubble gum and bailing wire. Downing ibuprofen is my equivalent of the old trick of putting sawdust in the transmission to keep it quiet.

I envy the people who are physical “classics” with few hitches and glitches – those with nearly perfect, trouble-free, toned and tuned frames that belie their ages. Then there are the people who have had some misadventures, but who are genetically predisposed to be durable or who have been “restored” to perfect working order. They are the ones going to the gym and/or pool daily and drinking half-caff vanilla lattes with a salad. I see myself as a bit of a “clunker,” being an overweight, retro-technology, largely unrestored model: I am the physical equivalent of a 1971 Suzuki GT750 “Water Buffalo” with some dents and scuffed paint from falling over in the garage. I don’t think I fall into the “ratbike” category just yet and I hope I never will, but I never know what Papa Time has in store for me, especially if I continue to ride offroad and do silly long days in the saddle on a road bike. I need to hit the gym and the pool and eat a few salads so that at least I can say, “I ran when you parked me.”