My first street bike experience was aboard a Honda CBR600 F4i. I had only learned how to operate a motorcycle the day before, in the dirt on a tiny pit bike, and I was completely terrified to ride the Honda. The terror subsided about 5 seconds after I let the clutch out.

While not the pinnacle of sporting motorcycles, that F4i seemed to be wired directly into my brain. Before that ride, downhill skiing had been the most natural-feeling sporting activity I had ever experienced. That experience, the connection between the bike and me, was impossibly close to the feeling of skiing. I was hooked. I needed a bike of my own.

Through the kindness of a very generous boss, I ended up with a free motorcycle. Maybe not the sporting steed that I had so longed for, but something to get me out on the road. It was a Honda, but that’s damn near where the similarities to that F4i ended.

That Shadow 650 VLX lasted about 2 months in my care. I sold it to a guy who was tired of riding on the back of his wife’s Harley, and needed a bike to learn on. I am not kidding.

With the spoils from that sale, and a little help from a friend, I bought an impeccably cared-for 1996 Kawasaki ZX-6r. Though nearly ten years old by the time I bought it, the bike had only 13,000 miles, and the motor was nice and stong. Now I was on the track to recapture some of that sportbike magic.

Sadly, the bike had a scary front end clunk, and steering almost as vague as the plot in a German art film. Those traits, coupled with the dated styling and angry hairdryer exhaust tone still left me jonesing for something more. That bike was sold to some guy with a flatbed truck, and the much-missed SV650 entered my life shortly thereafter. Then that Sv650 died on track, and was itself replaced.

That’s right. Two years of riding. Four bikes. One Incredibly Understanding Wife. Pretty incredible, huh?

I just sent this in an email to the Incredibly Understanding Wife. The same one who lets me do all the things I usually write about on this site. I am lucky to have her. She… well… she is stuck with me.

Hello wife,

As is typical on a Thursday, I am wearing my blue sweater with the grey and green stripe. You know this blue sweater, it’s the same blue sweater I have had forever. There are a number of things I could say about my day today, but they can all be summed up thusly:

I need a new goddamned sweater.

Why am I so lazy about buying clothes? I am only wearing this sweater because my three real work shirts (lovingly named Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday) have already been rotated through, but it is not yet Friday, when I feel I can go to my office in a stained and faded polo shirt that I probably dripped salsa and motor oil on last week. I clearly need to be put on some kind of clothing plan, where I must buy one new garment each month.

I have one pair of jeans, I wear hobo shoes, and I keep wearing this sweater that isn’t fit for a dog to sleep on. Well, I guess that depends on the dog. Certain dogs, like terriers and boxers, or even a small lab or a young German shepherd, would actually be able to sleep IN the sleeves of this sweater, thanks to the fact that the cuffs have lost all elasticity and hang open like the sleeves on some scooby-doo ghoul’s robe. Meddling kids. These sleeves droop like mouths in a constant state of shock, and my hands and wrists ding-dangle about inside their gaping maws like the metal beater that a farmer’s wife might use to ring the “come and get it” dinner triangle.

You know what’s sad? That woman is better dressed than me.

In other news, a coworker wants the recipe for that delicious pumpkin cake you sent with me yesterday. He loved it. You should be proud. He actually, “Hella” wants it. Which is a lot, I hear. But I don’t know, because I am clearly stuck in 1987 when this goddamned sweater was still new, and Bill Cosby wore it.

Rudy!

Sigh,
Chris

With the recent passing of my beloved sv650, I was left with nothing. Perhaps that’s a little melodramatic. I had the love of my family, and my wonderful wife, good friends and a cute house, a mediocre cat, and more cars than I have a right to. Oh, and a welder. Probably some things I forgot. I am still so grief-stricken at my loss that I can’t be expected to think clearly.

I loved that stupid motorcycle. Like a happy puppy it was always ready to play, and didn’t seem to care what we did, as long as we were together. And then, in metaphorical puppy style, it took a huge crap on the living room carpet of my psyche.

After getting tossed off on track, I was not only completely bereft of motorcycles, but it seemed I was – for the first time – totally horrified of riding. Some people would call that a good thing. A safe thing. Smart. It’s survival instinct. You touch the fire, or perhaps you engage in a tryst with an unseemly but amiable stranger with whom you share nothing more than an ability to rationalize nearly any decision, you get burned. Or perhaps more accurately, you get a “burning sensation.” Your brain associates the two, and you live a safer, if slightly more embarrassed, life.

Thinking that smart decisions are best left to smart people, I decided to buy another bike. A better bike. A new puppy if you will. (And you will. Do it. Come on. You have read this far, you are gonna start fighting me now? No. I didn’t think so. )

So, a new puppy. But, having been so badly scarred by the cuddly little guy I just buried, my subconscious prevented me from getting another cuddly little companion. I needed emotional distance. So I got a different kind of dog. Bigger. Meaner. A mutt – half greyhound, half pit bull, half Labrador, half-assed implementation of basic addition skills there, for sure, because that equals 150%. Whatever. This new bike just ain’t the same.

It’s an SV1000s, and it is more powerful, has better brakes, better suspension, wider tires, and generally more of everything that should keep my ass out of a ditch. Well, except for the more power part. That’s like putting a huge ass magnet IN every ditch I ride by. That is, if someone actually made ass magnets. Someone should. Man, talk about a million uses.

To combat magnetic ass, and my ever intensifying fear of riding, I decided more track events were in order. Days in which I didn’t lay the bike down at barely sub-sonic speeds. Days where the bike left the track in pretty much the same condition in which it arrived. Days where I could get my confidence back. Or get my hopes (and, potentially, my femur) crushed in a high speed incident.

So far – so good. See below.

I decided to run for office in my local BMW club. I have no opposition. My platform was summed up thusly:

I’m Chris, and I would like to be your club Secretary.

See, way back when in college, I chose English as my major. It’s sort of like choosing unemployment as a major, except easier to spell. I thought maybe I’d write the next great novel, or maybe just a supermarket suspense book. I wanted to do something to put my stamp on literature in some small way.

Well, here’s my chance! I can write the minutes at club meetings! Come on! How do you think Chaucer got started? Yup, just like me he was an avid autocrosser and track junkie, and he probably owned at least 2 BMWs at any given time. Heck, I bet he even owned an e30 M3 at one point, and installed suspension in it 6 times. He and I are peas in a pod, man. I tell you. I am going to BE somebody.

I hope I win.

Apparently scientists are very willing to admit that they know nothing. Reassuringly they are also willing to build incredibly complex machines based completely on that very lack of understanding, and then turn those machines on in an attempt to recreate the big bang – on a small scale.

Swiss scientists are mad

The possibility of accidentally destroying the universe as we know it is very slim. (Ten to the minus 40.) I feel better. Right?

Who’s Cris Cohen? Probably the funniest guy I know. And that’s saying a lot, because those of you reading this are all very funny, and likely pissed off now, because up until this point you thought YOU were the funniest guy I knew. Even you ladies.

You all were the funniest at a point, and you may be again. In fact, I challenge you all to a hilarity-off. Whomever makes me do that thing where I laugh so suddenly and uncontrollably that I suck part of my soft palette up into my sinus, and make that kind of choking sound, and it kind of hurts and my eyes tear up and I nearly drool (it’s subtle and sophisticated for sure), that person will be the winner.

Because I am so self-involved, I likely won’t say anything, or announce who made me do the sniff-choke. But I will know. And that’s enough for me. (Again remember the self-centered-ness.)

To prime your comic pump, have a look at Cris’ take on a recent meal.

So funny.

I brought the SV to Thunderhill for two more days of lapping and learning. I feel like I really was able to improve my technique and riding form, and I shaved about 10 seconds off my lap times over the course of the first day. Awesome!

In day two, I took a couple more seconds off by the third session. I was carrying a bit more speed through the turns, and therefore braking harder to enter the following turns. In so doing, I started to fade the brakes, and I learned that brake fade is a crappy deal.

Braking hard into turn ten, I very quickly noticed I wasn’t slowing down. The brakes just weren’t having any effect at normal brake lever pressure. So I pulled harder. The edge of the track kept getting closer, and my speeds weren’t really coming down. Then I pulled MUCH harder, and bottomed out my fork. The ensuing tank-slapper* was really something. The bars started shaking back and forth incredibly quickly, and the bike was skidding left and right and left and right and boom. I went down.

The now-prone bike left the track much more quickly than I did, and apparently those frame sliders do a good job of keeping the important parts from getting scratched on the asphalt, but serve as vaulting poles when they hit the dirt. The bike careened away, and I slid on my back to the side of the track. Good times.

Check the pics. Pretty spectacular. I am totally fine. I have a bruise on my arm, and one on my hip. I am a little stiff, but that’s likely more from the exercise of riding for two days. I swear I am just fine.

The SV though – totalled. Given the options, I think that’s absolutely fine.

*See an example of this type of gnarly headshake in the video I shot from the previous day. This is one lap of thunderhill, starting at turn five. Download the video and then skip ahead to about 15 seconds before then end and watch the drama.

Having perfected my surly, disenchanted musician thing, I went for a number of years listening only to Steely Dan and the Sons of Champlin. Steely Dan engaged me musically and impressed me with compositional mastery, the Sons helped me to lighten up and reminded me that good music is supposed to make you want to dance.

Well, it was bound to happen. Music that ISN’T from one of the aforementioned bands has fulfilled me in ways that I thought I couldn’t (or forgot tthat I could) be fulfilled. I am listening to three albums, over and over, and I am smiling. Each of these albums makes me feel like the players were having fun when they recorded the album, not taking themselves too seriously, but taking their craft seriously enough to make the best product they could. Maybe I ‘m crazy, but that’s what I like.

Check ‘em out.

Percy Hill – After All
Muscially involving, emotionally fulfilling, and the soundtrack to good times. Can you beat that? Possibly the most mature band I have heard in a long time. They bring the grovve to a simmer, and never let it boil over. Just push it right to the edge, every time. Inspiring.

Jamiroquai – Return of the Space Cowboy
Jay Kay is so bad, he can’t possibly be any badder. And Stuart Zender on bass is like a fingerstyle funk textbook. How can you NOT smile when this is playing?

Young MC – Stone Cold Rhymin’
Before suburban kids were introduced to the chronic, hos, and AKs, we were dancing to this. And 17 years later, I remember why. Super fun grooves, actual musical changes, and my man Marvin isn’t content to just rhyme single syllable words. “Just Say No” is a horrible let down, but I can overlook it when I listen to “Know How” and hear rhymes like, “You think that it’s your destiny to get the best of me but I suggest you be: quiet, bro don’t even try it, from the East and West of me.” Plus, Red Hot Chili peppers bassist Flea is in rare form guesting on a number of tracks. Skip over “Bust a Move” if it has left a bad taste in your mouth. The album has a lot more to offer if you can seperate it from the memory of that awkward bra incident after the 8th grade dance.

In preparation for this track day at Thunderhill, I replaced the radiator, water pump, thermostat, and various other cooling components, and added M3 end links for my front sway bar.

The car ran cool, and cornered WAY flatter than the last time I was at Thill. That fact is doubly amazing considering that this time I ran on my V710s – which is essentially like cheating since they are so damned sticky. The car was inspiring.

I also ran a lap timer for the first time; by the end of the day I was pretty consistently in the 2:13:xx area, which makes me happy. I figure the car is tubby, but the tires almost make up for it, so the time seems pretty legit.

I shot some in car video during the time trial – note the extremely fast Evo that I nearly cut off when I got a point on my third lap. Also note the ridiculous line I was tryng through Turn 11. I have a tendency to early apex that turn, so I was making a concerted effort to wait longer than I needed to to try and change my ways. That is definitely NOT a line I actually thought would be faster.

Time Trial, NCRC, first 3 laps

You will also note the silence that is my car. All you hear is wind noise. Hard to shift. I plan to fix that soon…

I love my sister. Look how happy we are.

And yes, I am nearly 30 and I still play in my college marching band. Again, note how happy it makes me.

Good times.