Ignition.

Yeah, one would think an engineer…after 35 years of riding…would have a somewhat complex, thorough, and methodical approach to launching his motorcycle. The passion should be gone…removed from the equation. Safety and procedure are supposed to be paramount. The elimination of the art from the deed. Modern society seems to demand it. Nothing to fight. Nothing to create. Nothing to destroy. Nothing to be passionate about. No way to die.

But that’s no way to live.

Modern society is somewhat at a disadvantage when the real world intrudes.

I am not. I live there. Life IS art. Damn messy too.

My launch sequence would be the the equivalent of the shuttle pilot sticking his head out the window and yelling, “LIGHT ME!”

KeyOnThumbTheButtonCheckTheBrakesOnTheWayOutTheDrivewayIsThereAnyGasInThisThing?

Zoom zoom.

There’s a savage joy in the instant response of the big machine…an elation at her willingness to dance to the precise, fractional inputs to her controls.

It’s a complex dance, and though the manipulations of the controls are minuscule, the results are not at all subtle. Muscle, blood, steel, concrete. Cages, landscape, weather. The human element…emotion, skills, and failures. Ground pounding power. All these slam together and fly apart in a rapid sequence that’s hard to comprehend.

I live for this dance. I may die for it too. The consequences if I miss a step can be extreme. The machine, in the heat of the ride, is as much a part of me as my own beating heart. Following my lead, she will faithfully convey me straight to my death if I’m not up to the challenge.

Hope you’ve got your shit together…
Hope you’re quite prepared to die…

The neighbors get annoyed when I loudly sing that while zooming down the alley. Cops too. They seem to take it personally. It scares me that the cops are too young to know what/who CCR is.

The indifferent hostility of the city only adds to the dance. One driver switches lanes on top of me and never even looks. Another deliberately edges me out of my lane, using 3000 pounds of steel as a weapon to get his way. I can move or I can die. I’m never quite sure which I’ll choose.

This time I moved. He throws his coffee at me when traffic patterns put me near him again.

But this time, as in most, I win in the end.

The traffic breaks.

They can only shuffle along in their enclosed, protected, and colorless world.

Me?

I can fly!

I break the bonds of earth and run with the winds, smells, and sounds of the city. The beat of the engine becomes my pulse. My desire is instantly translated into movement. My very thought becomes direction. The passion rises…and the power becomes endless.

The machine and the man become an act of sheer will.

Time moves differently in that world. Hours, minutes, and miles merge with the mind guiding the flight. Where the machine leaves off and the man begins becomes a question. The road streams by, dealing up challenges. The mind learns, without possibility of mistake or self-delusion, exactly what it is capable of.

The dance continues until the universe ends…

…or until I have to stop for gas.

Which will it be today?

Live. Ride. See. Fly.

I’ll see you on the road.

CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer

Just there! Green neon. The Mobil Pegasus. The tower. The flashing red and blue of emergency vehicles right at the edge of my vision. The brilliantly bright earth and the pitch-dark sky. Such is deep night in the city.

Cars and trucks blow by without noticing me. A black motorcycle, and a black-clad rider, parked against the wall on the inside corner of the mammoth bridge simply doesn’t register. They can’t see me. Likely can’t run over me either. The steep banking curve of this bridge and my location puts me “out of the flow”.

I’m effectively alone, in a city of millions.

She flagged me down right at the intersection. I really had little choice but to stop. The light was red, cages (motorcyclist’s slang for car or truck) filled the other lanes, and she stepped off the curb.

First impressions: Young, late 20’s perhaps. Curvy. Dark hair. She was dressed for clubbing. Black summer top leaving a bare left shoulder. Nicely rounded cleavage. Small area of bare midriff. Short skirt. Heels. Small tattoo (Stitch!) above her left breast near her collarbone. Not conservative…not excessive either. Rather, female…and obviously and pleasantly so.

First impressions over, stark details began to resolve under the harsh streetlights. Bruises on her face and arms. Hair out of place. Some maybe pulled out. No purse. Scraped elbows and feet. Torn skirt. She’d been crying but wasn’t now. Not drunk. Didn’t have the vacant look of a drug user.

“I need a ride.” It was a statement. Her voice indicated a relative calm. Her inflection revealed intelligence and reinforced my impression that she wasn’t using. She was in trouble though. Her face betrayed the edge of panic.

I looked her up and down again, trying to gather my thoughts and figure out the situation. Her torn skirt revealed that her panties were gone. She was beyond being self-conscious about it. The predator in me could smell sex.

“What you need is a cop.”

Perched high above the city, it’s a good time and place for me to be alone. I look at my hands. I need time to stop the shakes; time to lose the toxic mix of emotion and lust; time to wrestle my own demons back into safe keeping.

Turning toward the north, away from downtown, I gasp at the spectacle of a threatening storm skirting the city. The city lights clearly reach the horizon, but there they meet the end of the world…a distinct curve sharply defining the edge of the earth. Off the map. There be monsters there.

The storm towers above, near continuous lightning outlining its menacing swirling dark clouds. I can feel more than hear its growl…the sub-audible but powerful rumble easily crossing the miles between us and thrumming deep in my chest. Even the massive structure I’m standing on, millions of tons of concrete and steel, vibrates in tune with the storm.

Monsters indeed.

North and south. The storm and the city. Each fascinating and intensely powerful in their own right. Each beautiful, each necessary, and each dangerous beyond measure.

Her eyes widened in alarm and she looked like she was about to bolt. “No. Please. I just need to get out of here.”

“Look, if you’ve been raped…”

“No!” she cut me off. “That’s not it at all. I’ve been living with him a while. That was going to be the last time. We were done. I told him…” she stopped a moment, rubbing her wrists. Then, “He just wasn’t going to let me leave.”

The light changed. The cars left. The one behind me went around. They didn’t even honk. I’m sure they thought I was negotiating with a hooker.

People see…what the city wants them to see…

The storm confounds the senses. Lulled by its benefits, mesmerized by its beauty, and pursued by its relentless indifference, its victims find themselves overwhelmed by the power, tossed about by forces they can scarcely understand, and devoured by its sheer size and swirling energies. The storm is an entity, by some measures alive…and it is hungry. By the time its prey are aware of the danger it is usually too late to flee. All you can do is try to hide…and hope the hunter chooses someone else.

This city…is the same. A predator of the highest order, with a cold, indifferent intelligence, immense power, and an insatiable appetite.

Observing either from this perch makes this easily apparent. The storm and the city. North and south. Beauty and danger. Pulsing life throbbing in both. The instinct begins to understand…and screams to run…or barring that, to hunt. Fight or flee. Kill or be killed. At the moment I’m just an observer, and still my heart pounds in my chest. It’s not a subtle feeling.

“Please? He smashed my phone.”

I held up mine. “We can call the cops…”

She cut me off again and turned to walk away, “Never mind!”

I could have let it go at that. Gone on my way and hoped…or pretended…that she found a safe place…a safe ride.

But I’ve been around too much to fool myself that way. I’ve played this role before. It hasn’t always worked out. Over a lifetime of experience I’ve already gathered enough nightmares. She’s one of the kind that disappears and nobody knows. And she was trying to escape. Many never even realize they need to.

Dammit.

Like moths to the flame they come. This city’s quadrupled in population in just a couple decades. The young come to make their way or find some human contact. The homeless come to find a meal or work or to blend into the fabric of the city. The rural, not realizing what they already have, come to find something more. The professionals come in search of the money to buy back their souls. The criminals…well, they come to prey on them all.

None of them are prepared for what they find. There’s an intoxicating dynamic in play. It will change them all.

So many come that few notice those that disappear. Some escape. Some just vanish. A few make the news…the spectacular…or the connected…but many are simply lost. The city is an efficient predator…and it attracts a lot of scavengers.

The pain piles up…and nobody knows a damn thing.

Most that survive here adapt to the rhythm and eventually just blend in and “go to ground”. They manage to ignore, for the most part, the dark side of the city. It’s much easier to accept its benefits…to rationalize its existence, if you don’t comprehend the cost.

Well and good…if you have time to get established…if you have a safe place to go…if you have people around you that care.

Many don’t.

The city knows this.

“Wait!”

She turned around.

“Why no cops?” I have no fear of the city or the night and frankly could give a shit less about the appearance of my dealings…but there are things here in this city I won’t have any part of.

She spoke quietly, “Because nobody watches the watchers.”

A police cruiser zooms by my place on the bridge. I warily watch him continue on without slowing. I wonder what he would think if he knew I was perched here, watching the city and the storm. I wonder what he would think about tonight’s earlier events. Doesn’t matter I suppose. I know even he, the trained observer, won’t notice me here. I just don’t fit.

I wasn’t even sure I heard her, but chills went down my spine. Her situation was not trivial. Who’s watching the watchers? A question that’s more common than you’d think, here. It’s one of those dark sides nobody wants to think about because it can snatch anybody, not just the vulnerable, not just the naïve. What do you do when you call for help…and the bad guys answer the phone?

I didn’t like to admit it, but yeah, she needed to run.

“Where do you need to go?”

“Atoka, Oklahoma.” Her voice was flat.

“Shit.” The expletive was involuntary and mostly just surprise. That was well over 100 miles away. The problem solver in me was wondering if, right now, that was even possible. I was dealing with my own issues. Passion and drive. Emotions. Money. Time. Loneliness. My very core in turmoil. Looking for answers…when I don’t even have the questions.

Trivial perhaps, up against other problems, but that in no way lessons the impact…or the pain.

With some effort I dismissed those thoughts and focused the immediate situation again. If I took her at her word we needed to move, now. How much fuel was left in the bike? Did I have any gas money? How many clips was I carrying for the 45? Was Oklahoma a helmet state? It usually wasn’t an issue. I couldn’t remember. I have friends I can trust all over the place. Who was in that area? If I could just get her out of the city maybe we could arrange a place and a pickup.

As all this was percolating in my head I was staring intently at her. The predator. The dark side. Just happens that way…males are…focused.

I saw it coming before she did…and would have stopped it if I could, but my brain was busy crunching on problems while at the same time trying to reign in my own demons.

Her face changed. She’d reached that edge of panic and felt she was cornered. She was out of options and resources. She understood…perhaps for the first time ever, that her very life was at stake. I saw the decision. She had determined there was only one solution left.

She played her last card, one she clearly didn’t want to put down, but also one she was confident would not fail.

Standing on the bridge, my thoughts darkly male, I mentally count, for at least the tenth time, the days…hours…until the wife gets home.

Can you hear me? Can you hear me? In the dark night, far away…

The passion! The drive!

It’s still too many. Days yet. The lightning to the north intensifies as I watch, and punctuates the turmoil in my soul.

“If you take me there I’ll give you a blowjob.”

There it was. The last card.

Now, understand. I am 100%, hard-wired, full-on, red-blooded male. If I was asked how much I think about sex I would say, “All the time” and THAT would be understating. I am highly in favor of blowjobs, or any other kind of interaction between consenting adults. To me, life IS passion and it’s far too short to spend it NOT getting laid.

But I’m married. It’s a commitment and honor and respect thing. Even if I wasn’t, it’s a fine line. Sex IS often currency, in subtle and even socially acceptable ways, let’s not be naïve. Both sides play the game, and I really have no problem with that. Heck, as a younger (and unattached) man, “Gas, grass, or ass, nobody rides for free” was a pretty good motto, and I already had the gas and didn’t want/use the grass! It was a social game, it was about opportunity, it was about living, and we all came away with something we wanted.

But for me, desperation is not part of the deal. Desperation is not consent. We are not animals.

Mostly. Sometimes.

I looked her up and down again.

“No.” It was about all my brain could manage at the moment. Damn those bamboozling females anyway.

A car roars up the massive overpass, rapidly approaching my location, and I turn to watch it. Tires humming, it drifts wide, away from my place on the inside shoulder. I hear it brush the wall. Dangerous. 150 feet above the concrete and steel below is not a place to be careless. Most people have no clue how close to the edge they are at any given time or situation. Motorcyclists, true riders, have no such blinders. The shadow of death rides with us, always.

The tires squeal as the car bounces off the wall. Drunk. Or racing. Or both. I watch it barely make the corner, drift by me, and rocket down the steep grade. I chuckle and shake my head, wondering if he’ll survive long enough to encounter the police car that passed earlier.

She looked me over. I hadn’t responded quite as expected. The last card couldn’t fail. She thought she knew where she stood. To her, my “No” wasn’t an outright refusal. She’d made an offer no male would resist. The offer made, the line crossed, it was just down to the terms now. Everything’s a transaction. This is the city’s legacy.

She sighed, “Two then. One when we get out of town, another when we get to Atoka.”

Honor, desperation, or no, it’s still not easy. The wife’s been gone for days and one of the reasons I was out riding in the first place was to distract from that. We are hardwired for this. That dark side of the man can’t be excised without killing the rest of him…and I am very much alive.

A sweet young thing. Two ‘nobody knows, no consequences’ blowjobs. Laugh, or dismiss it if it makes you feel better…but realize that Presidents have been toppled for less.

Again, all I could manage, “No.”

She looked away, spoke quietly, “Sex then.”

Erk. Grock. Reboot. Phizzle. Pop.

The light changed again. She was watching me expectantly.

“You have family or friends in Atoka? Somebody you trust?” Dammed if I was going to deliver her from the frying pan into the fire. I’ve been here before, played out nearly this very same scenario. I’d been injured that time. When you start piling scars on top of scars, you start to hope that it means something.

“Yes. Friends. Good ones.”

Then why’d they let you go? I didn’t say it. I knew the answer. She’s an adult. Friends, good ones, encourage you to fly. They have to let you go.

The hell with it. She was pretty, and it was a nice night for a ride anyway. The money, and the rest…I’d figure out somehow. I always do.

I tipped my head, motioning her my way.

“Get on.”

I watch the big storm to the north visibly swirl and swell. It is either growing or approaching. Perhaps both. It’s difficult to tell from my perspective. I’d missed it on my southbound trek, slipping through before it had gained any strength.

Irrationally, I wonder if it knows. I wonder if it’s hunting me.

The big machine went lean north of McKinney. I reached down and flipped her to reserve. Some miles later at Anna, I hit the truck stop for some fuel.

The girl on the back might weigh 125 pounds. Compared to me and the bike…the thousand pounds of blood, bone, and steel that is The Dragon, she barely registers. It would be almost easy to forget she was there.

Except for those damn curves…and her scent. I don’t think the female of the species truly knows just how driven we males are…the forces and turmoil we (barely) keep in check…just how aware we become of what they are.

As I finished pumping the gas she motioned to the darkened side lot. “There?” Her tone said she wanted to get it over with.

I shook my head, grunted, “Let’s ride” and lit the engine on the big machine.

Dammit.

I tentatively decide the storm is approaching. Lightning is starting to track through the sky above me. Exposed, 150 feet in the air, is no place to take a stand against that power. I’ve no illusions about the forces I challenge. One day they will chew me up like I was never there. It’s time to flee or hunt. I’ve not decided which yet.

I look at the cages below and wonder if any of their occupants have even an inkling of the forces at play tonight.

I dropped her at a small place north of Atoka. No neighbors. Few lights.

As she climbed off the bike she said, “We can do it here or we can go inside. My friends won’t mind. I won’t tell them why.”

She could have just run for the house. A deal was a deal I guess.

I stayed on the bike. Left the engine running. “No. Thank you.”

She cocked her head. “Are you gay?”

At this I laughed. She truly had no clue of what I kept leashed. “Not even a little bit!”

“Men don’t say ‘no’.”

“Men will. You’ve been dealing with boys. Be safe. I know that city. Help might not come again.” That was the most words I’d managed to string together since she’d made the offer. I hoped she understood.

Scars on top of scars.

I hoped it mattered.

Not waiting for more, I gunned the throttle and feathered the clutch, heading for the road and scattering gravel. I had to get the hell out of there.

The Valkyrie’s lonely wail was all I had for company on the long ride back.

The storm rumbles audibly now, the threat clear and immediate, but the hidden nature of the city below me disturbs me just as much.

I’d done some good. One had escaped. Maybe.

But below are probably hundreds more caught in this gilded cage, this trap of intricate design, and drifting toward a fate they are not expecting and may not escape.

There’s 10 million people within 50 miles of where I’m standing. One-hundred-thousand more come every year.

For the most part, they are on their own. Like me, now, essentially alone while surrounded by humanity.

I wonder if I can escape the trap…when it’s my turn to cheat fate. Maybe it’s already too late.

A breeze suddenly washes over me, perched above it all. It carries the smell, the taste, and the tension of the storm.

It’s infectious.

Hunt or flee. The storm or the city.

I take a deep breath. Stretch. Exhale.

Screw it. Demons be dammed. I tighten my gloves and fire the engine.

Hunt or flee? It suddenly seems silly to me that it was even a question. If I want to keep my soul there’s only one choice. It’s time to ride. It’s time to hunt.

We have a date, this storm and I.

“You ready babe?”

The bike’s quiet grumble is an answer.

“Let’s fly then.”

My answers are out there…maybe one day I will even figure out the questions.

CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer

*note: the destination town name/distance/direction may have been changed to stymie a little boy that might think he’s up for the hunt. Harmful or fatal if swallowed. May contain peanuts. The wrong end of a 45 can be hazardous to your health. Contains sharp objects. Not for use on Tuesday. Contents under pressure. For adults only. Not good with any other offer. Only one coupon per customer.

140 miles running hard, essentially under the same fast moving storm…and just for good measure, another several hours of rain…

I am.

Tonight is for *the ride*.

From CCR:
“Hope you got your things together.
Hope you are quite prepared to die.”

I’ll see you on the road.

CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer

The catering truck was dead and like a scene from a murder
Its vital fluids flowed across the road…
…It had served its last burger

The mess was slick and the traffic was tough
But I plowed my way through
The grease and the muck

The traffic broke up
Time to twist the throttle and fly
But I spent the next 300 miles cursing…

that my bike smells like burnt French fries…

I can’t imagine what came over me!

CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer

Should do me some good…banging about the highways and byways of Texas…meeting friends, and snarfing barbecue.

From a couple years ago:

And…just as a bonus…beautiful riding weather…and a long distance night ride!

I’ll see you on the road!

CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer

Such is the nature of Dallas traffic. It happens so much that as long as everybody survives, it’s seldom remarkable.

This time however, other factors came into play. Serious factors.

A quick stop. A section of highway banked for turning at speed. A clumsy planting of my left foot. A tilting of the bike to the right. Sliding forward on the seat. An unfortunately ill-fitting pair of “tighty-whiteys”.

Yes, the unspeakable happened. “The boys” escaped. Then, having not thought through their clever plan, they promptly got squashed.

Simultaneously free of their safe confines yet restricted in the distance they can travel by my jeans and their…well…attachment, the small bits of trouble-making biology only managed to get far enough that the sliding forward on the seat put them in perfect position for a flesh bruising crush. The recoil as I levitated off the seat on what I am sure were the visible waves of pain only succeeded in clamping the boys firmly between the elastic of the traitorous underwear and my inner thigh, where they continued to suffer severe trauma with every slight movement. Had I still been moving at highway speed I’d have probably leaped off the bike hoping for a quick demise.

For the fairer sex that may be reading (yes, there are some), yes, we are talking about the male ‘dangly bits’…those sensitive parts that make us ‘pointers’ instead of setters and are responsible for pretty much all our male decision making that doesn’t involve alcohol or power tools.

They are not something we normally talk about in polite company. In fact, we (males) normally don’t discuss them at all. When we become aware another male has suffered “impact” to that zone, we either become contemplative and depressed, or we guffaw to cover our gasping in shared pain. We all, to a man, unconsciously cross our legs or otherwise “cover up” when witnessing that particular pain, and then we usually shift the subject to something like hockey scores despite the fact that none of us has been to or seen a hockey game in months…or ever. We may shrug off a chainsaw to the chest (hey, it’s only a flesh wound) but that is a pain we all know and try to avoid.

And make no mistake, pain it is. There’s not one greater a male can suffer. We’d watch the world and everything in it burn to avoid that pain.

So, if we never talk about it, why here? Why now?

It serves to explain…circumstances. Yeah. That’s it. With all the cell phone cameras in the world today, an explanation may yet become necessary.

Context is important, and perhaps the above graphic details may help to explain how I came to be parked on the freeway, surrounded by hundreds of cages and all their passengers, gasping and with arm down in my waistband, frantically digging around in my jeans with one hand (while trying to hold the bike up with the other).

Re-positioning…was paramount…preferably before the waves of pain had me puking in my helmet, levitating clear off the freeway, or crawling under the nearest 18-wheeler, curling into a fetal position, and begging the driver to run over me. Re-positioning HAD to happen. No other action was possible.

I had just about achieved the redeployment…just decided I might live, when I looked to my right…to see the cop car stuck in traffic beside me…and the cop looking directly at me. He did not look happy. He put his car in neutral. This is generally a precursor to bad things.

Screw it. He could shoot me if he wanted. At least that would relieve the pain. I ignored him and completed the “correction.” I then took several deep breaths, trying to avoid barfing and to mitigate the dizziness brought on by the pain…and the sudden cessation of it.

I jerked my hand out of my pants, acutely aware that the sheer relief evident on my face probably looked “indecent” given the current circumstances.

I looked back at the cop. He mouthed, “What the fu..?”

I held up my right hand, palm up in a cupping motion, and then slowly closed my fingers in a crushing motion until I had a fist, hoping he would understand the implication. Just for good measure I added a “twist” at the end.

He understood alright. He looked horrified. I’m sure he crossed his legs. His partner put his hands in his lap and looked away. The first cop then faced forward and ignored me until the traffic moved again.

Yep, he got the message.

So, dear readers, when the pictures from any one of the hundreds of witnesses to this event begin to show up, perhaps on funniest home videos or such, please remember the context…and get me my share of the prize money.

As to the moral of this sordid tale? It’s a simple one:

AHHHaaaFFriggen OUCH!

CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer

These are premium frames with outstanding lenses, and they can also be fitted with prescription lenses as well.

Anyway, I happened to mention to the rep that lenses with reader inserts would be helpful for those of us that for some reason cannot read the maps in our tankbag anymore (can’t imagine why…I’m not getting old…really!), but are not quite ready to go the full prescription route.

Turns out they do have several models with reader inserts available and offered to send me a pair to try out.

I chose the Biker Sun style with 2.5 readers.

Liberty Sport Biker Sun with reader lenses

Like the previous Liberty Sports I tried, they came equipped with a very nice semi-rigid, zippered case that does stand up to being packed (or squashed) into a tank or duffle bag. They also come with a strap/string but I have not found it necessary to use that, with or without a helmet.

Short of it is, I’ve been riding extensively with these glasses and I like them.

The earpieces are extremely comfortable and well designed. Even wearing these for hours with a helmet on does not bother my ears. The rubber inserts in the ear pieces also make sure the glasses stay in place even without a helmet.

The reader part of the lens is a clean transition from the regular lens and is not readily visible when looking at the glasses from a distance (for those of us that might be vain about such things). It’s large enough to be effective at glancing down at maps or gauges, but small enough not to distract from the central vision area.

The frames are rugged, comfortable, and have stood up to my normal abuse.

The overall lenses have withstood standard abuse, including flying debris and being dropped several times without scratches or blemishes, and unlike many cheaper sport sunglasses, the earpieces cannot touch the lenses when folded (eliminating my most common source of scratches).

Overall a positive experience.

Pros:
-Well designed
-Functional
-Good styling/look nice
-Comfortable (even after hours of wear)
-Durable (ANSI rated)
-Stay in place (even without helmet)

Cons are:
-Price: You get what you pay for and these are high end. The MSRP is $139. Given the cost of fuel and oil nowadays, and remembering what I pay for a good pair of boots, I feel this is reasonable.
-Availablilty: These are not available online, you must visit a retailer (you would have to anyway if you need ‘scripts). They do have an extensive retailer network though…as an example there are 35 outlets within 10 miles of my home.

I’ve noticed that even my northern friends are awakening their machines from their winter slumber…it may be time to take a look and maybe upgrade your riding gear as well.

I’ll see you on the road!

CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer