July 06, 2006 - 9:54 p.m.
It happened before the Fourth of July weekend. Four years of neglect reared its ugly head and revenge on my bike Elizabeth. She had been safely parked inside the garage. Needing a new battery, fresh spark plugs, and gasoline. All which she received on Saturday, July 1st. A new battery and several presses on the automatic start button turned over her sleeping, idle engine. New, pre-gapped spark plugs may have helped fire her inline pistons. Gas quickly took the path of least resistance. Oozing from every crack and cranny. Four carburetors to be exact. The final kaboom happened when gas and oil leaked out of her exhaust tube. She literally hemmorrhaged at the seams. I had the good sense to quit turning over her engine. Knowing once the heat came, a fire flare-up was sure to follow.
Four years of empty promises. Dreams of riding with you topless at the front of the dyke march. Pride parade. Every year, pride cometh before the Fall. The carbs gummed over, floats stuck wide open. Liquid finding the path of expanded, leaky gaskets. A Uhaul trailer rental and a well-written ad on Craigslist saved Elizabeth's engine. I loaded her on the trailer, took her to a stay-at-home dad, part-time motorcycle mechanic who lives fifteen miles from here. Most shops won't work on bikes older than 10 years. Elizabeth turned 14 in September. Has 6,000 original miles on her frame, wheels, and engine. She's a well preserved teenager.
Imagine my relief and happiness when Mr. Mom fixed her in two days! He spent eight hours cleaning and de-gunking the carbs, all four of them. He changed the oil, filter, and tightened the chain. Inflated the tires. He let me know Elizabeth should have her valves re-timed and her throttle worked on. It doesn't roll back automatically when released, a major safety hazard.
I put on the 2007 green registration sticker and took Elizabeth on a 30 mile ride yesterday evening. I stopped by the family home to offer Bubbles a ride around the neighborhood. He cursed at me. Watching curiously, secretly from the front window. And laughed at his father Boaz who wanted to be my first, 2006 passenger. What the hell. Why not. Boaz strapped on his bicycle helmet and I rode him ten blocks on Elizabeth. He commented how smooth she purred and roared when accelerated past 3000 RPMs. The desperate housewives were amused to see a woman riding a man on a motorcycle in their pleasant neighborhood. I'm guessing they can tell I am a woman by the shape of my body and hips. Although I have lost weight recently and currently weigh 145 pounds. With a 34 inch inseam, I could pass as a guy with long legs. I've developed this habit of stopping with both feet on the ground and a police style take-off. One guy in cage (car) tried to drag race me down the city street. Silly man. I left him in the dust. Elizabeth's in-line, four cylinder engine can outperform any four or six cylinder cage on take-off. Plus my smaller statue gives me a tremendous weight advantage. Elizabeth weighs 490 pounds wet. A fast, two wheeled machine.
Realize, I am a butch lesbian trapped in a femme body. How absurd. Probably explains why I am dual-natured. Can dress up and be femme on the town. Can wear faded jeans, get my fingers dirty, and ride bikes. Even work on them and complete simple tasks like changing plugs, installing new batteries, windshields, lower cowling, air horns, oil filters, and so forth.
I was perusing online ads and found a BMW F650 enduro with heated grips, hard luggage bags, and low profile seating. Aye Caramba!! Wet dreams galore. I am torn between wanting a newer, faster, creature comfort bike or keeping older Elizabeth who meets most-all of my riding needs. The concern of a forty-something woman takes hold. "Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback seriously injured on a motorcycle last month, not wearing a helmet. Wide receiver killed this week when his motorcycle collided with another biker on a residential street in Georgia." Murphy's Law is bound to catch up with me. Especially in a busy, metropolitan area of northern California. The odds are against me.
Two guys in my complex own motorcycles. They want to ride with me and Elizabeth. Can't belief I found a mechanic to fix her for under $350 dollars. The going shop rate is twice that amount for eight hours of service. Owning a motorcycle is a personal high. Victory over death and injury every time you return unscathed. Must be the butch inside me yearning for a challenge. Same high the cave dweller received when he/she came back to the den with game or escape from death and dismemberment. Endorphins, andrenaline pumping a natural high (safe drugs) throughout the body. A need for speed.
Every morning I use eyedrops to lubricate my corneas. I realize my need for reading glasses are right around the corner. With age, comes dryness and vision change. For the worse. Not better. Even laser surgery can't ward off the need for reading glasses. When I'm sitting in my rocking chair, wheelchair sipping lunch through a straw, I want to remember my days with Elizabeth. Thrill-seeking adventures with the wooly-mammoths of the 21st century. This ole butch-femme has about 20-25 good years remaining on her engine. Hopefully I won't need a new top-end, valve job, gasket replacement, fork seals, or resynched carbs for another 20,000 miles or more. Is it fate we become a smashed bug on the windshield or is it pre-destiny, pre-determination? Fate can be either good or bad. Luck of the draw, Murphy's law. Pre-destiny cannot be changed. Altered, or interferred with drastically. Makes life more bearable. Knowing you cannot change things out of your immediate control. Otherwise, you go through life with major regrets, sorrow, remorse, and other guilt-ridden, depressive, negative emotions.
~ Soldier Girl
