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Excerpt from The
Monkey Butt Essays
It would seem that the weather has made a liar
out of me. Back in October when I
wrote the November Bump Start, I thought
that riding season would be history by the time
that issue hit the streets on November 15th.
Well, here it is November 17th, and I’ve
just gotten into the office after a beautiful
ride on the old Crotch Rocket.
I’d taken the bike to work and over to
the Post Office to collect the Pony mail, so I
got two rides in before finally sitting down and
attempting to get something done. Among the
usual flotsam and jetsam stuffing P.O. Box 2316
was a real gem. No, not another
Wal-Mart
flyer, it was a letter from a reader and new
subscriber from Watervliet. He took the
time to write a lengthy letter to me to
compliment the Pony and, even better, to offer
some good information. This really beats
the shite mail as Seagull has dubbed it. (I
usually let him answer it too, because he’s
so excitable and argumentative!)
This reader, Norman Gignac is a serious long
distance rider who found our magazine on the
counter at Herba Honda in Perth. His letter
appears in The Mailbag and is worth reading.
Besides causing me to stop, think and write a
response, this letter also gave rise to many
musings. Memories that had long been placed
at the back of the lowest file-drawer of my mind
were brought up, dusted off and savored.
Daytona '93 is still a fresh and wonderful
memory. Not counting a million weekend
trips into the Adirondacks and up to Boonville
for a Saturday night Poker game here and there,
Daytona was the last major overnighter I’ve
done. At Daytona, we stayed in a house, had
a Crash Truck just in case, and basically
pampered ourselves. This wasn’t the
way we used to undertake a road trip.
My first year at college was highlighted by a
near-magic summer. Many of my friends had
been drafted and were serving in Southeast Asia.
I was registered, but not currently eligible as I
was in school. However, the threat of
wartime duty was a very real and ever-present
concern. That summer always shines in my
mind with a delicate, crystal-like fragility.
There but for the grace of God... Each
moment was savored. My riding buddy (at the
time) and I undertook many long motorcycle
camping expeditions.
Back in those days, camping gear could not be
slipped into tank bags, tail trunks, or other
motorcycle-specific luggage. One purchased
surplus duffel bags, ammo bags, A.L.I.C.E. sacks,
etc. and bungeed them to the bike as best as one
could. The main concern was maintaining a
center of balance and not having any straps,
strings or entire bags lunch themselves in the
sprockets and chain. Sleeping bags were
strapped to the handlebars ala Bronson -- purely
for style. This did wonders(!) for the bike’s
handling as well as blocking off much of the
light emanating from a Lucas headlamp. And
they called Lucas The Prince of Darkness
even without a sleeping bag!
We couldn’t afford Bell Star helmets --
the only full-faced model offered at the time --
so we ate our share of bugs. We always said
“Never try to get the thing back out, its
better to swallow than to see what you’
caught!” All that extra protein! Yum!
Support vehicles were unheard of. Once I
lunched a piston in Loch Sheldrake, near
Ellenville. When I called home, my Dad said
“Gee that’s tough, call me again after
you’ve fixed it.” That’s
what I get for using “Mexican Overdrive”
(clutch lever pulled) going down a long hill well
over 100 mph -- and then over-revving when I
tried to engage fourth gear again! What a
sound! So any repairs for crash damage or
abuse were made at the side of the road. Back
when pay-phones had telephone books attached to
them, one could always find the appropriate
dealer for tech support and parts. I think
some of the best memories came from those times
when the machine was busted by the side of some
unknown road. That’s when we met
interesting people, saw neat stuff and learned
about living.
Sometimes I think back to those days of hard
riding, eating dust, rough camping and wonder if
a little of the magic has been lost through our
quest for convenience. Somehow I don’t
think comfort is as important to the riding
experience as some would like to think. We
don’t go riding to be comfortable (otherwise
we’d all have Goldwings or, more likely,
cars. Face it, a car is more comfortable on
a sixteen below day -- especially in the snow.
Simply by our fixation with sportbikes we
already display a healthy disdain for comfort and
convenience. The sportbike, by definition,
is more severe, austere, and uncompromising than
any other type of street-going motorcycle. They
must, by heritage, be so. The modern
sportbike is a thinly veiled rendition of a
factory Works race bike. That’
what makes ‘m so much fun -- and so
unforgiving to those who would haughtily show
them disrespect and ride them above their own
abilities. (These are the people who supply
all those non riders with their “My friend
Fred...” stories!)
Somehow I know that riding is an act of
defiance. We defy nature. We embrace
her without any self-imposed barriers. We
are there for her to love or to scorn -- and she
usually scorns with punishment! We defy the
boundaries of society’s “common sense.”
The mainstream would rather see us all conform
and drive Volvo wagons. In an odd sort of
way, we embrace mainstream society. By
placing ourselves, vulnerable, at their mercy, we
inadvertently show our faith and trust, no matter
how misplaced. You only open up your
weaknesses to your nearest and dearest, don’t
you? That last bit was tongue-in-cheek,
just in case you thought I was serious... The
nature bit stands, though.
Anyway, I think that the next time I go on an
extended road trip, I’m going to pack a
sleeping bag rather than reservations at the
Quality Inn. If I’m with a group on a
long trip, I’ll try to veto a crash
truck. When I think of those bygone days
when we laughed and shared friendship over a
hopelessly clogged carburetor or struggled and
sweated trying to mend a tube on a ninety degree
day on a dusty, lonely shoulder of a two lane
blacktop highway from Nowhere to Land’s End,
I realize that maybe a bit of the excitement and
adventure that drew me to biking may have been
lost over the course of time.
Riding is all about preparing for risk,
formulating a plan, then executing that plan.
Unfortunately, some of us have become a little
too far-reaching in the risk management field.
Yes, our riding should be smooth, controlled,
devoid of excessive risk-taking. However,
risk management shouldn’t keep an individual
from facing a problem or imposing challenge and
allowing him or her the sweet taste of victory
when he or she has thought out and remedied the
situation. That feeling, one of overcoming
a difficult obstacle, is the basis of all great
human achievement. I, for one, want to keep
that feeling in my life!
Harry
G. Pellegrin
READ THE PRESS
RELEASE!
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LOW END By Harry George Pellegrin. The
first in the Gary Morrissey series of mysteries. Dealing
with modern subject matter in the classic style of the 1940's
Mystery Noire masters--think Raymond Chandler in New York in the
1980's... LOW END is the story of a drug addict who is
murdered after he believes he has found evidence of a major
government conspiracy. Is it only drug-induced paranoia?
Might be, except his paranoia could be considered justified: he
was murdered, after all. Friend Gary Morrissey takes it
upon himself to find out just what happened and lands himself in
the crosshairs.
See more info...
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Classic Guitar Method Composed,
written, transcribed, edited and arranged by Harry G. Pellegrin: Now in one volume, much of what the novice classical guitarist will need to know to lead him or her to the recital stage. From proper instrument care and maintenance to the necessary technical skills, musical mind-set, and the standard repertoire—all exposed and explored with enough detail and insight that the student will wish to keep this book handy years to come as a ready reference source.
See more info...
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DEEP END: The Wreck
of the Eddie Fitz By
Harry George Pellegrin. A mystery novel. Involving a
semi-professional musician and a Kreyol death cult, DEEP END
takes the reader from the bottom of Long Island Sound to the
steamy streets and Blues clubs of New Orleans. Alternative
spirituality does battle with the common working man. Published by
PAB Entertainment Group in association with LULU.com.
See more info...
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Reflecting Pools
Original Music by Harry G. Pellegrin:
Reflecting Pools is a departure for me
as it is totally keyboard. Well, the guitar did show up on one
track...
"...Reflecting Pools is a notable first album [for
Mr. Pellegrin]. A dramatic sense of tonality and mood are
propelled by exemplary musicianship and exciting compositional
exploits."
...And containing nine tracks that are relaxing, inspirational
-- sounds like a snooze. Not really, this is great stuff to
listen to on a rainy afternoon, while with your significant
other (nudge, nudge, know what I mean?)
Please visit the Reflecting Pools
page on this site or
www.bathtubmusic.com.
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is Published by Bedside Books, an imprint of
American Book Publishing.
ISBN
1-58982-074-6
LOW END Copyright
2003 Harry G. Pellegrin
In
God We Trust
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