My Hobby is Heart Break
Things that are “hard” are better, cooler, tougher, more manly, and more righteous than things that are “easy”. I think this is some footnote to the puritan work ethic I was raised with, and I am fairly certain that it has caused me more grief than satisfaction.
Recently I have decided to take my longtime love of motorcycles and turn it into a faster and much more expensive hobby by way of rebuilding a motorcycle for the track and some amateur road racing. The desire to rebuild a motorcycle to these ends was partly a financial decision and in part was fueled by my need to do things the hard way.
I found the bike I wanted a Triumph Daytona 675 on Craigslist in San Francisco. The bike sells new for about $9,400 and this was an ‘07 with only 1800 miles for $3,400. The catch, this bike had been crashed, did not run and had a salvage title. This was a dream come true, the price was right and I would have a great pain in the ass learning project on my hands. After talking to the owner I convinced myself that this could be rebuilt for about $2k and be ready to take to the track in a month, and I bought the bike.
I rented a truck and coerced my sister into driving to SF and back in a weekend to bring the bike home. Once I got it home the work began, and like every project i have ever done most projects it went well over budget and took about twice as long as I hoped. Rather than bore you with a description of all the work below is a slide show of my project and the bike.
So after all this work I can hardly wait to get to the race track on Memorial Day 5/26/2008. We are there early and roll the bikes off to go play on the track. After the first 3 laps of intense grinning I pulled into the pits to see look over the bike. Before I even got off I caught the faint smell of oil burning in my helmet then I looked down to see oil covering my rear-set and right boot. The feeling in my stomach was akin to the feeling you might get when your high school girlfriend says “we need to talk”. It is a the feeling of something good ending.
They don’t tell you broken ribs can lead to a serious case of ENVY
Its’ been almost 3 weeks since I broke 3 ribs and bruised my lung in a dirt bike wreck chronicled in my Previous Post, and I am finally sleeping laying down and getting life back to normal. Unfortunately neither me nor my bike was 100% ready to head to the racetrack for todays Pueblo Motorsports Pony Express race. Even though I wasn’t ready to race I figured I should go support my boys who were running a 3 man team called Heavy Metal Thunder in this event.
Going to the race track to when you can’t race is a bad idea, waking up at 8 on a Sunday and riding 2 hours in 38 degree weather is just plain stupid. My 8 am ride got off to a rocky start as one of my all star racing friend Karl, clearly the most experienced racer amongst us, called me frantic as he forgot his helmet. I ran to his house Grabbed his lid and headed down to Pueblo shaking most of the way from the cold. When I arrived Karl was on the grid and it was first call, I rode through the pits and made the hand off just in time. 
Listening to the wale of that triple was part exciting and part heartbreaking, knowing that my Daytona was sitting in the garage still 20 labor hours away from being ready to run. After a 30 minute session, Karl pulled in and his brother Chris took off on Honda CBR. After 12 hot laps Chris managed a magical highside. Aside from being a little shaken up both Chris and his bike came out ok.
Chris Jumped on the pit back and ripped across the pits to give his transponder to Fish who was ready to get out there on his Ducati 748. After only 4 or 5 laps Fish came into the pits with a motor making all sorts of bad sounds. Karl headed back out on the Triumph and got to put in a long session of fast laps.
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Roller Coaster Life
Life is always busy and crazy for me but this week might take the cake as the most up and down week in my life. Monday I get up and start my day early wrapping up all my work early so I can enjoy an evening of motocross action. While I am sure it was still pathetically slow I was feeling sporty hustling around the track pretty fast considering it was only my second day of the season. Working through the tighter top part of the track my confidence was pretty high and as I came through the fast lower section my mind was reeling remembering all my Moto tips.
Gas, Clutch, Shift, Gas, Eyes up, Stand up … OH FUCK
I have crashed lots of motorcycles lots of times, crashes on the street, crashes in the dirt, crashes on the race track, for the most part time slows down your brain runs a 1000 tragejectory calculations, you scout your landing, and then everything speeds up as you tumble. This crash had none of that, one second I was riding, pulling hard on the gas, the next I was rolling on the ground clawing the air trying to find a breath. My entire right side clenched and throbbing, I watched the stars criss cross my view in a panic as I tried to breath. I started throwing off gear, goggles, then helmet, then gloves with some futile hope that something would make it easier to breath. By this time my riding cohorts came around and watched my struggle trying to figure out how best to help me. After a few minutes they got me to my feet and restarted my bike and asked if I was ok to ride back to the truck. I obliged limped the bike back to the truck at sat evaluating my need for hospitalization.
As a MAN the hospital is a gamble, if you are really hurt going to get drugs and get fixed is great, however, if you go and they find out nothing is really wrong then you have proven conclusively that you are a pussy.With my breathing still shallow and painful I rolled the dice and decided we needed to go to the hospital.
After the standard 1 hour + wait I was seen, poked and prodded and given a bevy of tests from an ultrasound to xrays, to a full cat scan. Results came back that I had in fact broken 3 ribs and bruised my right lung. The lung troubled the Docs and they required that I stay the night to insure that my lung did not fill with fluid.
Frontier Airlines, the Greyhound of the Sky
I remember my parents making me dress in nice clothes when we would travel by plane as kids. Sure the clothes were uncomfortable but it made me feel like we were doing something special. We could spend a few hours in one of these magical flying death traps and arrive in a place where the weather was better or the language was different, someplace that was clearly far from home. On the plane as kids we were intimidated into good behavior sitting quietly reading, doing word puzzles, or playing cards. The stewardesses were pretty and their uniforms looked pressed and proper, the patrons dressed with some dignity, and there was a drink, a snack, and a meal. Those days are long gone my friends.
My last flight a non-stop from Denver to Orlando was a total disaster, a herculean test of patience, and a window seat view to the decline of American social standards. First off Denver to Orlando means dealing with Tofu eating, Teva wearing, too “loving” to discipline my children hippies making their sacred family pilgrimage to see that all American Deity with the giant ears. My flight was sabotaged by one such shit parade.
She appeared with two fully stuffed carry-on sized rolling bags, a backpack with one bottle of water and one bottle of baby formula attached by carabiner, and a toddler who was probably too old to still be riding in the papoose contraption slung across her chest. We first crossed paths at the check in desk where she argued with the clerk over her bags, and for a brief second I sympathized with struggle as a single traveling mother.
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A Friendly Reminder
That is me and my good friend Adam Sitta in Wollengong Australia 10 years ago. Adam, a native Aussie, and I met while I was studying abroad and we still talk today some 10 years later. In Australia we were either traveling, surfing, chasing girls, or planning our future travels. We were going to see it all, I was going to actually become an OK surfer, he was going to snowboard in the States, we were going to climb mountains on each continent, we would learn langauges and meet people.
10 years have passed since I was that young optimistic student enjoying life abroad, and it has been about that long since I last saw my friend Adam, but he has taken up a special role in my psyche. Everytime we speak he inspires me and makes me deeply question my life just by being himself. I have become an American SUIT, I work 50-60 hours a week, I own a house, I own a 2 cars and 3 or more motorcycles. I surround myself with stuff, buying things to pat myself on the back for all my hard work.
Adam on the other hand has dedicated himself to a life of experience, he works at a job that he enjoys (most of the time) and works to travel and support his surfing habit. Most years he will tell you stories of months in Indonesia, or travels to Europe or South America, stories of epic surf, and interesting fellow travelers. His life is modest in many ways but it is one that I would trade mine for most days.
Don’t get me wrong, I like my work and it seems to get more interesting and rewarding with every passing, but I believe it is important to stop and ask why am I doing this. Is the work an end in itself or is it a means to an end. If it is a means to an end is it the most efficient means possible?
When I talk to Adam it is a friendly reminder that I am working hard because I enjoy the challenge and creative expression of the projects I am working on, and I am striving for the financial and psychic independence to be able to say YES next time Adam asks if I can meet him in Bali for a few weeks of life changing surf.
Thanks Adam for the reminder, and for still bothering to ask where we can meet up, every time we talk.
There is no Starting and Stopping, only Doing
A new year and a million things I am going to do better; stop eating junk food, start working out more, stop buying crap I don’t need, start writing more, start finishing the books I am reading, start making more time for friends….
THERE IS NO STARTING AND STOPPING, ONLY DOING.
Do something good today people.
This Song Kicks
I have been reading lots of these best of 2007 music lists lately to see if there are any gems I might have missed on the music scene this year. I am a music consumer from rock ‘n’ roll to rap, indie and alternative to electronica, you name it I will give it a listen. (unless it is country or polka) I came across this Okkervil River record and have listened to it a bunch. It is very much one of those grows on you records. Even as it has grown on me I haven’t fallen for it completely, there are some good tracks and some that I could do without.
Last night at the grocery store pushing around my cart in the most anti social of ways with my hood up and my iPhone rocking this track came on. I found myself dancing with my cart, and smiling at shoppers stuck with their brat kids pulling boxes of fruity pebbles off the shelves. Okkervil River does a good job of making me smile and makes the banality of life seem a bit more colorful.
Check out some Free Downloads from Okkervil River here.
From Where comes the Dare in Daredevil
What compels daredevils to do the things that they do? I could pretend to tell you I know because I have tried some scary things in my life, I have jumped out of a few planes, climbed some tall ribbons of ice, raced a motorcycle, and even stood on the roof of a moving car. From my seat those things seemed to have an acceptably low risk, and at the time I had the invincibility of youth. Even with my youthful ignorance every time I did these things I have been afraid, I did them to prove that I could, and I started to crave the fear that made me feel electric. The truth is I love and value my life and unlike true daredevils I would never put this “alive” feeling over the safety of staying alive.
For New Years this year Red Bull planned a new crop of Daredevil stunts that they called the “Red Bull Experiments”. One of these stunts was going to be the first ever Automotive Back Flip done in a car by Rhys Millen, and the second a motorcycle jump clearing an entire football field by Robbie Maddison. The experiments were only half successful with Rhys Compressing his spine while practicing his back flip and Robbie making his 322′ jump successfully. The football field jump is unreal and you can see footage here. Why should we care about these acts of insanity? For me the late great Evel Knievel has the answer.
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Working Like a Rockstar?
I have always loved live music, the intimacy of small clubs, the energy of the crowd, and the organ rattling volume that I can’t reproduce no matter how loud I sing in the car. I have some friends that were in one of those greatest bands that never was. I remember watching their band Vaux building the crowd into a frenzy during an encore performance of their anthematic song “Set it to Blow” thinking that being a rockstar is the greatest job ever. For two hours you take the stage to do what you love, to share what you have created, to create a relationship with those watching that is unique and intimate. The performance is emotional and physical, and for any self respecting rockstar it demands complete presence, a state of being that few of us get to work in.
Is it possible to sit at a computer 10-15 hours a days and work like a rockstar?
I contend that it is not, and believe me I try. I have a genuine passion and excitement for the work I am doing, but that rockstar intensity is hard to muster for the type of work I do and in the medium in which so many of us work.
