I saw alot of anger growing up, and so I try to control my own. But I'm not very good at it, not at all.

So when the Harley Davidson flew past me, without even a wave, my hand began to twist the throttle without a conscious thought. My bike is old, I know that. It's old and tired and its 80 horsepower engine, a beast in its day, is a sopwith camel in a jet plane age.

Still, the bike respondedand I tore down the freeway, buffeted by the wind. I guess I'm old, too, and I'm an 80s guy in a Millenium age, but I cut my teeth riding the Los Angeles freeways, splitting lanes, weaving among cars, a shark swimming in a sea of traffic.

And so without much thought I flew through and among the cars, danced with my bike on the blacktop, the Capitol Dome flying by, and the fat, lumbering Harley, nearly as big as a car itself, was a quarter mile behind me in a few moments time, caged in by traffic.

The weekend was spent tightening down all the screws and bolts I shook loose on my poor old bike. That's what a temper will do to you.

Fat pig

I saw a bike today that looked like a fat pig. A black Suzuki with a gargantuan gas tank. A beast on wheels with oil for blood. It brooded at the rear of the dealership basement, the other bikes, bright greens and blues and reds, filling the other aisles.
But this metal creature sat alone. I climbed astride it, and felt as though I were the first to do so, like the monster was lonely and craving someone to care for it. But it's an ugly beast. When I left it, I doubted I'd ever visit again.

Why I ride

When you're a kid, the world seems, well, big.

And so do people. Probably 'cause you're always craning your neck looking up at them.

Like the man in denim I saw in the grocery store line when I was seven. He seemed huge, tall, with thick black hair down to his shoulders.

I looked up at him, standing in that grocery store line, and, man, I wanted to be that guy.

When he left that store, I had no doubt he hopped on a motorcycle and rode away, paper sack of groceries in hand.

A few years later, I was stuffed in a VW bus with my siblings, tooling down a stifling hot L.A. freeway on the way to Santa Monica beach.

The big fat Hondas and Suzukis and Yamahas came roaring through the knot of cars and trucks and vans, splitting lanes, the men riding one handed, hair flowing in the wind, hollering at each other and laughing as they rode.

Man, I thought, that looks like fun.

More years passed. I was maybe 15 and saw an ad in a magazine - just a photo of a guy in jeans, head in a dark helmet, riding a Kawasaki LTD, the motto "Let the Good Times Roll," just below the image.

And so, when I turned 21 I walked into a Suzuki dealership and bought my first motorcycle, a red Suzuki GS650.

It just looked fun.

Riding

Damp. Cold. Air.
Every morning ride begins this way.
My muscles are stiff and tense.
Without fail, I think to myself, "Why didn't I take the car again? I could listen to the radio. Sit in warmth and comfort. Keep a cup of Chang's watery but hot coffee and one of his awesome chocolate doughnuts just an arm's stretch away?"
The pot holes are jarring. My visor is fogging up.
But then I hit South 19th Street and head west to Pine.
And I make that left turn, the one that forces me to spot the oil patches, gravel, whatever road debris is inevitably strewn at this one junky intersection -- and my mind kicks on.
It has to.
I glance at my mirrors, watch the road ahead, the cars at my side, look for the tell-tale signs of the inattentive drivers - the weaving, the pointlessly blinking signals, the cell phones pressed against ears, the backward glance at crying children.
But I'm not doing any of that - I'm watching the road.
I'm watching the big rigs loaded with logs, or lumber or mysterious, industrial objects.
I'm listening to my engine for any new sound.
I'm smelling the air, the diesel, the damp.
I'm using all my senses.
I'm alive.
I'm on a motorcycle racing over blacktop at 65 mph, astride a machine that is power and drive and in the grip of my hand, with a twist, I know I could do 85, 90, 100.
But I don't.
I forget about my warm car sitting alone in the driveway.
I don't crave a coffee.
I don't want for music.
I don't even care if I make it to work.
I'm just riding my bike. That's enough.

Valve job from hell

Sometimes, I truly believe that my brains are only enough to help me breathe, walk and earn a living (barely).
But tasked with anything beyond that and the noodle in my skull utterly fails me.
Such was the case when I embarked on my first motorcycle valve adjustment. Doesn't that phrase alone send you into a soft slumber? I know. I don't mean to become a motorcycle geek, but somehow, it's happening to me nonetheless.
There are as many bikers as there are bikes. I wish I were of the tatooed, long-haired, cable-muscled variety. But, sadly, I am not. I've never had a tatoo beyond the temporary variety from a Cracker Jack box. My long hair is long gone. My muscles, well, lets say those Soloflex ads are wrong - 20 minutes a day three times a week will NOT give you the physique of a male underwear model.
To the point - I attempted the valve job. It took me two days, I momentarily locked up my engine, I'm not sure I have the valve settings exactly right and I got into a huge fight with my wife in the middle of the entire project. Can you imagine anything more challenging?
Well, we survived. I mean, my bike and me. I think we're closer for the experience.
Here's my bike with its guts all exposed. It gives new meaning to the term, "naked bike."
You know, I go on these websites, forums, really, filled with other owners of classic Japanese motorycles and so many of them sound like expert mechanics and I'm just totally jealous.
I'm not a mechanic and I know that. But I just really love jamming my hands into the guts of this bike.

New bike owner

So, Nat had her first taste of motorcycle ownership - turning a wrench.

She's still riding parking lots, but that will change next weekend when we go for a nice, slow ride through town. She's already agreed to wake up early so we can enjoy the streets before traffic builds up.

She's getting bored with riding around in a circle and I don't blame her! I rode the bike to the practice lot and didn't like how the rear brake felt - as weak as an old spindly leg. It wouldn't even hold the bike still at a stop. So when we got home, we pulled out the manual and together adjusted the break pedal so it was nice and strong.

Nat didn't hesistate and was ready to work the wrench. I'm only a fair mechanic, a parts changer and not much more, but I can at least teach her how to change the oil, replace the plugs, and do the other general maintenance the bike will need.

That's one of the things about motorcycle ownership that's just different than owning a car - you sort of have to get your hands dirty. There are chains to lube and oil to check and tire pressure to maintain. Your safety is so much more dependent on the reliable operation of your bike, that you simply must take better care of it.

I'd never dream of going on a ride, even down the block, without checking my tires, making sure lights and switches are working, and just giving my bike the once over to make sure there isn't suddenly fluid or oils where there wasn't any before.

And yet, I hop into my car and drive off without so much as a glance.

It's just different.

I think Nat gets that.

Dropped bike! What to do!

The panic in her voice was pretty severe, but with her new motorcycle on its side and gasoline pouring from the tank, I suppose I can understand why.
"I dropped my bike and I can't pick it up?!"
I tried talking my daughter through the process of picking up her bike, a Yamaha Maxim 550, but it was no use. So I drove the 10 minutes to her house and we hoisted it upright together.
The ordeal got me to thinking if there were a good tutorial on how to pick up a bike and, of course, there are tons. I liked this one the best.