Could have been so much worse

Heavy traffic, light turns green, starts moving forward, and a guy in a covered pickup changes lanes left, directly into me on my motorbike.

Signal?  Don't be silly.

When this happens there's not much time. You get one reaction, so choose wisely: a defensive move to get your delicate little self out of the way, or using the beep-beep. (It's only a horn if you have an aftermarket add-on. I don't.)

So I swerve left into the shared turn-lane which is, fortunately, unoccupied. Inside my helmet, I yell and swear loudly.

The Oblivious Moron drives forward. Since I'm going that way anyway, I follow, doing what people who've just had a narrow miss with oncoming traffic and the pavement do: I honk and gesture with my best what-the-hell gesture.  Not, I hasted to add, the F-you gesture, which doesn't make anyone sorry. Do you really want to pick a fight with someone in a truck when you're on a motorbike in the middle of traffic? No, you do not.

From his side mirror I can tell that Mr. Moron sees me gesturing, but he doesn't look very sorry. So I follow with what I have come to view as the universal reprimand, the gesture that us riders resort to.

The slow, disgusted headshake.

Unmistakable in meaning but not so challenging as the F-you gesture, it is often the only thing that tells people what you really think of their sloppy, life-risking driving.

I wear highly reflective yellow and white protective gear. I stand out, day or night. But when I've just survived some OM's inability to see me, I find myself thinking that the head shake is a pretty weak tool for social change.

Then I remember. Years ago I was a passenger in a sportscar being driven by someone who, usually pretty alert, inadvertently moved into a lane already occupied by a motorcycle, who -- like me -- was forced to move left to avoid us.  A minute later the motorcycle pulled up even with us, looked in through the passenger window, and slowly shook his dark, helmeted head.

I still feel bad and I wasn't even driving.

So maybe it works. Or maybe it just works on me.

The bottom line is this: I'm mighty glad that I was in good enough shape after that encounter to be able to shake my head at all. It could have been so much worse.

Cherry Blossom Fall, Part II

I had a friend take me out for ice cream. What else do you do when your ride's been pinched? Good stuff, this gelato place. Especially the salted caramel.

So coming back, there it was, parked along the street. Under some cherry blossoms. My bike. Minor damage to the ignition panel.  Gas level about the same.  Seems to run fine.

My best guess is that they started it up, drove it a block, realized it only looked like a powerful bike,  and then thoughtfully parked it near by.

Not an entirely bad day after all: ice cream, my bike back, and Cherry Blossoms, still falling.

Cherry Blossom Fall

It's the time of year to write about the blossoms, how full and lush, and lovely their fall. How they remind us of the changing of the seasons, of the delicate beauty that is spring.

This morning someone stole my bike. Just - took it.

Last time I moved residences, the car was hit and run the week before. This time it's the bike.

Just - gone.

Yes, it's damned unfair. Yes, I called the cops. No, they haven't found it yet.

And it's the weather for riding, too. Beautiful, lovely.

Cherry blossoms fall. No bike. Damn.

Good work, if you can get it

The other night I dreamt that I had my bike stolen, my important paper files were somewhere not in evidence, and I held in my hand an acceptance letter for a novel I didn't remember writing.

I was at a reading for this very novel, with lots of people sitting around with chocolate and fruit, smiling encouragingly at me. I was glancing at the opening paragraph, trying to remind myself of the story.

Something similar has happened to me before, in small ways, coming across a story I've written, not quite remembering having written it until I get into it. Or I'll remember some scene or nifty dialog, try to remember where I read it, and then realize that I wrote it.

But a whole book? Kind of cool. I thought so in the dream, too. I was looking forward to the reading, to find out what I'd written that was so good someone had bought it. Apparently it had something to do with glass, since there was a picture of drinking glasses on the front cover. (I was just packing in the kitchen the other day.)

A nice dream, even with the stolen bike and missing files. Reading a freshly sold novel aloud is a wonderful feeling, even if you can't quite remember writing it. Good work if you can get it.

Cold. On Bike.

I was riding the motor bike today, and it was cold, oh very very cold. "Short spring this year" someone said, and I laughed. There was sun, but it was cold. Then it snowed. And hailed.

Every time I get on the bike I am reminded how easy it is to kill myself by being stupid. Just one extra rev, a poorly thought out turn, my balance wrong, a driver turning left without looking, and I am rag-doll splatter.

But I get on anyway, helmet, jacket and gloves, and do that thing that I do. Why? Because, well. I don't quite know. It feels right. Maybe because it reminds me how easy it is to die. On the bike, or not.

Life. Death. Snow and hail.

And sun. Don't forget the sun.