Two days before I was to depart on a journey by motorcycle across the United States, I cracked my oil pan. What was only a classic beginner mechanic's mistake was a dramatically devastating occurrence for me as I faced the countdown to my rapidly approaching trip.
The summer before my senior year of college I was living in New York. I busied myself with classes at Columbia University from May-June, and then worked on a dressage barn through the muggy heat of July. August proposed a free schedule and only some ambiguous desires on my part; I wanted to see my parents back home in Washington and ride my motorcycle. My motorcycle being in New York and my parents being in Washington created a predicament.
After mulling over my endless August options the solution dawned on me, in all its romantic and adventurous grandeur: I would ride my motorcycle cross country! This would not only be an undoubtedly epic adventure, but also one which would solve the geographical location of my motorcycle dilemma. I announced the news to my parents and dreamt each night of me, my motorcycle, the open road and highway attractions like the world's largest frying pan, or the country's largest ball of string!
Sometime after my decision my father decided (or more truthfully, my mother elected him) to join me. I only needed to find him a bike; he would purchase a one way ticket to New York and join his daughter's venture. July rolled around and I began shopping for a bike worthy and capable of this trek. The nature of the bikes specifications created complications: budget, comfort, mechanical soundness...and located somewhere I could take a train to pick up. I finally found a bike in Brooklyn with potential. I hopped on the train to the city after work and to my dismay discovered the Long Island Express doesn't work as efficiently as one might desire. I finally made it to Grand Central Station and out to some hood in Brooklyn, I found the address and waited for the seller to arrive home. I plopped my sticky self down on a curb and watched the children playing in the wild spray of an open fire hydrant which spilled water into the street in every direction causing medium size rivers to flow down the streets of Brooklyn.
Eventually the seller showed up. He flung a tarp off of a motorcycle shaped object to reveal the product - a 1992 Suzuki V-max, rhino lined black, with metal spikes in the front fender. I tried to have an open mind: the bike just needed to get across the country and the price was right. He jumped on the bike and beckoned me to hop on, I warily climbed on the back with this enthusiastic stranger and he gunned the black devil down the tree-lined Brooklyn block, water flying up behind us from the ghetto hydrant-rivers. He energetically explained and demonstrated how the acceleration on the bike was and then slamming on the brakes -how top notch the braking power was. We flew back onto his block and up on the side walk. I got off asked him if he would ride it to Washington State, he said yes and I said I'll take it. A half hour later I was navigating the black devil onto the Long Island Express freeway, struggling with the cruiser style fork pitch and suspension, rolling my eyes at the inconceivable situations I get myself into.
My next task to prepare for the trip was the infamous oil change. I set up my tools and provisions neatly around my shiny blue Suzuki GSX-R, excited the way newbies are when they perform their first task of motorcycle maintenance. At the moment I triumphantly thought: 'mission accomplished' I over tightened the bolt and cracked the oil pan. Oil gushing out onto the yard I saw the dreams and plans of this trip washing away with my engine lubricant. 'How could this happen right before the trip!?' My father being the ingenious man he is got off the train in New York with a helmet, a small backpack and God's gift to motorcycle riders: JB Weld.
With my oil pan JB Welded and oven baked, we were ready to cruise on out. The morning we left I gave my Dad a tour of the barn I had worked at over the last month. Lines of expensive German horses, the smell of wood shavings, and just as we exited the barn to start our adventure the radio station hailed the start of our journey with, Steppenwolf, 'Born to be Wild.' My Dad of course thought the cinema heavens were speaking directly to us, but had to explain the Easy Rider reference to me.
We left New York in an August heat wave and navigating up through the Catskill Mountains we were met with the sporadic, but violent, thunderstorm. We pulled over at Niagara Falls to cool off in the spray of the natural wonder, marvel at my hair sticking straight up from the electric charges and ask some tourists to take our photo. We continued on around Lake Eerie and stopped for a meal at a local café boasting the local flavor of their renowned grape juice.
Dunya News - Motorcycle fell down into the sea by dunyanews
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/184901
The summer before my senior year of college I was living in New York. I busied myself with classes at Columbia University from May-June, and then worked on a dressage barn through the muggy heat of July. August proposed a free schedule and only some ambiguous desires on my part; I wanted to see my parents back home in Washington and ride my motorcycle. My motorcycle being in New York and my parents being in Washington created a predicament.
After mulling over my endless August options the solution dawned on me, in all its romantic and adventurous grandeur: I would ride my motorcycle cross country! This would not only be an undoubtedly epic adventure, but also one which would solve the geographical location of my motorcycle dilemma. I announced the news to my parents and dreamt each night of me, my motorcycle, the open road and highway attractions like the world's largest frying pan, or the country's largest ball of string!
Sometime after my decision my father decided (or more truthfully, my mother elected him) to join me. I only needed to find him a bike; he would purchase a one way ticket to New York and join his daughter's venture. July rolled around and I began shopping for a bike worthy and capable of this trek. The nature of the bikes specifications created complications: budget, comfort, mechanical soundness...and located somewhere I could take a train to pick up. I finally found a bike in Brooklyn with potential. I hopped on the train to the city after work and to my dismay discovered the Long Island Express doesn't work as efficiently as one might desire. I finally made it to Grand Central Station and out to some hood in Brooklyn, I found the address and waited for the seller to arrive home. I plopped my sticky self down on a curb and watched the children playing in the wild spray of an open fire hydrant which spilled water into the street in every direction causing medium size rivers to flow down the streets of Brooklyn.
Eventually the seller showed up. He flung a tarp off of a motorcycle shaped object to reveal the product - a 1992 Suzuki V-max, rhino lined black, with metal spikes in the front fender. I tried to have an open mind: the bike just needed to get across the country and the price was right. He jumped on the bike and beckoned me to hop on, I warily climbed on the back with this enthusiastic stranger and he gunned the black devil down the tree-lined Brooklyn block, water flying up behind us from the ghetto hydrant-rivers. He energetically explained and demonstrated how the acceleration on the bike was and then slamming on the brakes -how top notch the braking power was. We flew back onto his block and up on the side walk. I got off asked him if he would ride it to Washington State, he said yes and I said I'll take it. A half hour later I was navigating the black devil onto the Long Island Express freeway, struggling with the cruiser style fork pitch and suspension, rolling my eyes at the inconceivable situations I get myself into.
My next task to prepare for the trip was the infamous oil change. I set up my tools and provisions neatly around my shiny blue Suzuki GSX-R, excited the way newbies are when they perform their first task of motorcycle maintenance. At the moment I triumphantly thought: 'mission accomplished' I over tightened the bolt and cracked the oil pan. Oil gushing out onto the yard I saw the dreams and plans of this trip washing away with my engine lubricant. 'How could this happen right before the trip!?' My father being the ingenious man he is got off the train in New York with a helmet, a small backpack and God's gift to motorcycle riders: JB Weld.
With my oil pan JB Welded and oven baked, we were ready to cruise on out. The morning we left I gave my Dad a tour of the barn I had worked at over the last month. Lines of expensive German horses, the smell of wood shavings, and just as we exited the barn to start our adventure the radio station hailed the start of our journey with, Steppenwolf, 'Born to be Wild.' My Dad of course thought the cinema heavens were speaking directly to us, but had to explain the Easy Rider reference to me.
We left New York in an August heat wave and navigating up through the Catskill Mountains we were met with the sporadic, but violent, thunderstorm. We pulled over at Niagara Falls to cool off in the spray of the natural wonder, marvel at my hair sticking straight up from the electric charges and ask some tourists to take our photo. We continued on around Lake Eerie and stopped for a meal at a local café boasting the local flavor of their renowned grape juice.
Dunya News - Motorcycle fell down into the sea by dunyanews
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/184901
