Adaptive Curmudgeon

Turn the Wayback machine to a long forgotten place… the past. The year is 1989.

In case you think modern times are uniquely shit, culture in 1989 was already starting to suck. For no good reason whatsoever, this was a top song for the year: (WTF is with the disembodied tambourine creature?)

As apology for the abomination above I also link to Danny Elfman’s kick ass soundtrack made the same year. It was a superhero movie without a number after it. Can you imagine that? A single movie about a superhero instead of a dozen interconnected CGI fests! We didn’t know future movies would become giant steaming piles of endless superhero sequels mixed with minority gender swapped third order Disney remakes of pre-existing animated remakes that exist to bitch at us. Even then some of us wanted to set the TV on fire. (Incidentally, cable TV back then was a dozen channels but they didn’t suck nearly as completely as the 50 you’ve got now.).

The internet was a gleam in Al Gore’s eye but the digital age was already emerging. We hoped computer communication would make things like factories and science more efficient. The dystopia where F***book censors someone’s grandma over a difference between her political view and the approved narrative their neighbor broadcast on Twitter would be incomprehensible.

Right now, everything everywhere is censored. Back then the media was somewhat less shady and free speech of individuals was reasonably solid. You could say just about anything that came to your fool head without HR firing you or Siri forwarding your name to a Federal list. You might get your ass kicked if you said stupid shit in a stupid location but you’d have it coming and it wouldn’t be people with badges doing it.

I believed at the time that the FBI solved slightly more crime than it caused. I don’t know if that was true or just me being naïve. By 2023 the FBI has pretty much mastered the art of crime and cover up and it’s branching out into domestic terrorism. In ’89, when the media lied (which they did from time to time) they at least tried to be subtle about it; there was a dignity in that that I miss.

We didn’t have cell phones. When you spoke on a landline you were reasonably sure the NSA wasn’t logging the call. Silicon Valley was viewed as a positive forward growing futuristic place. President George Bush was getting pummeled by the press, just as Reagan before him, as has every other Republican president before or since. You think press bias is new?

Books were in libraries. Magazines came by mail. Newspapers were on paper. People read.

Schools sucked then just as they suck now. But tests like the SAT honestly tried to evaluate just how fuckin’ dumb your kid was. If a kid sucked at school parents would bitch at them to do better. Aside from dissecting shit and chemistry lab, there were no group projects.

Our teetering economy has old roots: The Federal debt in 1989 was $2.8 trillion (by 2022 we’d increased it 15x to $30.8 trillion)*. The Savings and Loan Crisis lead to a bailout of nearly 1/4 of banks. Then again a stamp cost a quarter (and people still used mail). A cup of coffee was a quarter (it was shitty coffee), so was a candy bar, so was a newspaper, by ’89 a payphone cost a quarter too. I used to read dead tree news every day. It seemed almost (but not quite) like they were reporting true information.

Much that vexes and pleases us today was already in play. Among the bad: China went ape at Tiananmen Square and the Exxon Valdez went to the bottom of the ocean in Alaska’s Prince William Sound. To the good, USSR went AWOL causing the collapse of the Berlin Wall, Poland had free elections, and Nintendo released the Gameboy.

Nobody in 1989 waved a flag in America for any nation but America. If a President said he’d look after American interests first nobody had pear clutching fits. Why the hell would we have president who isn’t looking out for our best interests?

Cars were different in 1989. Gas cost a buck a gallon. You could buy a brand new Yugo for $4,349. If you wanted something better (anything with wheels) a Honda Civic would set you back $6,348. Back then “economy” cars really were economy cars. They got high MPG and otherwise sucked. Unlike now, cars came in a variety of shapes and sizes and colors. These were meant to appeal to consumers instead of meet government regulations. A good “real” car (not an economy shitbox) would hit you for $15k or so. Financing a new car took 4 years (I was too poor for that!). You had to swap cars fairly often; they went a lot fewer miles back then.

Drivers were different too. Many knew how to shift. All could brake without antilock. It was normal to drive in snow without all wheel drive. I carried tire chains in my station wagon. I used them unironically. We could get places reading paper maps.

That’s a peek 1989… the year my “new” motorcycle was made. I’ve been happily tooling around on a 34 year old bike. I can’t stop smiling. I’m a frugal guy so I don’t buy “vintage shit” lightly. I’m not a collector. I bought it to use and enjoy. If my “vintage” machine lives up to my expectations I’ll rack up many miles in the future.

More later…

A.C.

*In case you’re wondering our current debt is about $30,824,000,000,000.00. No endeavor in all of human history has ever amassed a debt as large as America. Pharos, Roman Emperors, Popes, Mongolian Hordes, Chinese Dynasties, and British Empires all failed to beat us at the game of going into debt!

In case you’re wondering what kind of abomination I’ve acquired, here are some videos to chew on.

The deed is done. I veered from the path of predictability which, Adaptive Curmudgeon that I am, is a common occurrence. I carefully considered all options. When you carefully think things over you are more likely to chose something ideal for your specific desires than a mainstream “middle of the bell curve” solution. Having informed myself I strode clear into the wilderness of “thinking outside the box”. (Dumb expression but I really do it.) Whether it was because of or despite all that careful consideration is a thing unknowable. All I can say is I’m pleased with my new toy!

I bought a 1989 Honda Pacific Coast. Yes, I bought a 34 year old bike that’s unlike nearly any other bike from that era (or any other era). It looks weird, runs like a top, and I can’t stop smiling.

Photo from Wikipedia. Yes, it does look weird.

I have intentions for this new motorcycle. It’s niche is “not stuff I’ve already got” and also “chill”. I was thinking hard about and highly motivated by chill. Chill was key.

As for not-a-duplication; I already have two great bikes. My first is a roaring testosterone soaked chrome cruiser. I love my well used and super reliable Honda Shadow ACE 1100. Wikipedia shot of an 1100 ACE below:

My other bike is Honey Badger, my slow, cheap, and crude but plucky and unkillable little forest mule. It’s a Yamaha TW200. Basic photo of a TW200 below (mine has mire dirt and a bunch of survival shit bolted to it):

<Warning: digression> The timing of my TW200 purchase is interesting. I faffed about looking at ATVs and Argos for months and months. Then I bought the TW200 fast fast fast once I’d made the decision. It was a hurried action. Whether by intent or chance I purchased it just days before society crawled up its own ass.

I didn’t know the name of the destroyer. It could have been Covid or it could have been the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. It doesn’t matter what caused the upheaval; only that it happened. I knew something was afoot and that really did play a part in the timing.

I did not expect the extreme level of collapse. I had no idea the degree to which everyone would lose their shit. I didn’t know it would be caused by a pathogen. I did expect riots but I didn’t expect them to be protected by the government itself. I couldn’t imagine that lockdowns and riots would lead to a president who (absolutely unquestionably) got more votes than any other candidate in history taking the oath of office behind concertina wire.

I just knew the toddler was about to go full tantrum. Three years of hyperventilating wasn’t fading into calm. People do stupid shit until they stop and nobody was stopping. Something had to give and it would be monumentally stupid. It was!

I got a good deal on the Yamaha. I bought it brand new cheaper than people are currently asking for 5 year old used ones on Craigslist. (I also bought a shitload of canned goods but we all do that don’t we?)

Is that it? Am I peering into another abyss? Is there something in society driving this year’s purchase of a PC-800? Maybe. It’s hard to articulate. I did pursue it diligently instead of lazily.

Ask yourself, do you see outbreaks of reason and intelligence? Do things seem more or less stable? We’ve been on an national tantrum for a long time and we appear to want, need, and desire to hit our balls with a sledgehammer until we all live in mud huts.

If you knew… absolutely knew… shit was going pear shaped (more than it already has) what would you do? Would you load up your garage with a “chill bike”? Would you make sure it’s already gassed and positioned before the zombies take out whatever next piece of society they’ll target? I did.

When the next mass hysteria hits maybe I’ll do a road trip. Maybe I’ll go camping. When the lights go out what else is there to do but evade or enjoy the show? When the next madness hits… and it will… will you be surprised. Why?</digression>

Back to the here and now. I didn’t need a cruiser or a dirt bike and sport bikes (which are are awesome) are not for me. Even if I got a sport bike for free I’d just wind up buying a new boat for my chiropractor. Also, I’m just too lazy to ride that hard. If I do something stupid on two wheels I’d rather do it at 20 MPH over a soft surface of pine needles. Likewise, sport tourers lack for chill. They’re just too tall and aggressively seated for chillin’ out.

Seeking a tourer, I found myself shoved hard toward the tried and true, widely known, manufactured by boatloads, Honda Goldwing. It’s more or less the creator of the purpose made touring bike. I test drove several and nearly bought one. But their excellence fell flat to my eyes. They’ve just got too much stuff. I’ll address that in detail later.

I went back to the drawing board and settled on the Honda Pacific Coast 800. Honda, so the story goes, doesn’t just compete for markets. They seek to make markets. The PC800 took a shot at a new market.

It didn’t work out but Honda was doing the right thing trying. Remember when companies won your dollar through competition?

Honda’s Cub (a moped sized thing that has been in constant manufacture from 1958) is the most popular motor vehicle on planet earth. Suck on that Ford’s Model T! By the 1980’s Honda (along with Suzuki and Yamaha) had mastered the mechanics of reliable motorcycles so much that word “UJM” (universal Japanese motorcycle) was not an insult (at least not to me). Triumphs and Nortons and so forth were run ragged trying to keep up. Honda turned their engineers loose on the cruiser market and Harley-Davidson ran to pappa Ronald Regan for a protective tax in 1983.

It wasn’t called the chicken tax for nothing. My cruiser is so similar in sound to a Harley’s “potato potato” rumble that HD went to court to stop it. It didn’t work. My Shadow may deliberately sound the same, but that Japanese engineered V-twin is a whole different machine where it matters; in my humble opinion shaft drive and liquid cooling will beat leather vests and brand loyalty every time.

As for tourers, Honda noticed people bolting Vetter fairings on their bikes. Soon the Goldwing was in it’s element as the “pre-built to tour” standard. It dominated the “dad bod” touring bike market then and it still does now.

So I can’t fault Honda for a market failure with the Pacific Coast. Honda thought it could sell motorcycles to tech nerd silicon valley dweebs who wanted nothing to do with a regular “chrome and wrenches” motorcycle. They built a bike which looked much like a scooter, something like a car, rode easy, and was nothing like motorcycles of the time. Good try. American yuppie dweebs just didn’t go for it.

Honda deliberately made it tame lest they scare off the nerds. Remember how I was seeking chill? Chill and tame are two sides of one coin.

Honda even named their unique, one of a kind, like nothing else, machine “Pacific Coast” after the pretty highway of the left coast. Compare that to names that are all testosterone and glory; “Intruder”, “Marauder”, “Ninja”, “Vulcan”, “Katana”. Honda always sounds a little tamer than the crowd; my cruiser is a “Shadow” instead of an “Assassin”. Here I shout out to HD with names that drip with style; “FatBoy”,”Shovelhead”, “Softtail”, “Road Glide”. HD names rock!

Honda’s unique creation confused everyone. Motorcycle people looked at the plastic clad thing and fled. They said “it looks gay” (which I suppose it does, compared to sport bikes and cruiser). They legitimately griped “how can I play with wrenches on a robot like that?” They avoided it like the plague. Car people looked at the two wheeled creation and said “disguising a motorcycle doesn’t make me fear it any less”.

Honda gave it a shot for 9 years (starting in 1989). They sold a meager 14,000 and threw in the towel. The idea returns from time to time. If the ill fated Honda PC800 is the bike that looks like a scooter, the Suzuki Burgman 650 is the scooter that plays with bikes. (Used Burgmans are going for sky high prices right now!) (I have a soft spot for things that reach further. Later on I’ll talk about trucks and the Subaru Brat.)

Honda’s troubles are not my problem; they’re my opportunity. I like things for what they are, not what they represent. I like scooterish bikes, bike-ish scooters, and anything else that’s well made. I might have bought a Honda PCX350 scooter if Honda had gotten off it’s ass and dropped one in my local market.

My attitude about motorcycles embraces actual diversity. All motorcycles are cool. Every damn motorcycle is cooler than the average car.

So now I’m happy with my dumpy little PC800. (Note: it looks little but it’s not.) I got nothing to prove to nobody and I don’t need a wheeled chrome codpiece. I wish there were more bikes with the huge unique trunk of the PC800. I love the badonkadonk on my new bike!

More details to follow…

Some random photos from the internet. #1 Check out that badonkadink! 80 liters of locked waterproof storage is solidly in the Goldwing’s “truck like luggage capacity” territory:

#2 This photo is of “Cack” A Honda PC-800 that has been ridden hard and abused to monumental levels. Its owner was a legend in PC-800 forums “back in the day”. I’m not sure if Cack or its owner is still around. I’m 34 years late to the PC-800 party.

I’d “leveled up three times” while shopping for a used motorcycle. I began looking for a gem amid cobwebby ’80s era GL1200s. I’d slowly trod a path of increasing complexity and superior machine. This meant increasing technology (which wasn’t the goal) and expense (to which I’m allergic).

I was on a test drive. I’d found an absolutely excellent 5th Generation Goldwing GL1800.

Everything went haywire!

This particular motorcycle was (in my humble opinion) the best example I’m likely to find in my budget. (Actually a little above my budget.) An optimal compromise between cheap and well maintained. I liked the color. It idled like a whisper. Power was like a nuclear reactor. It bristled with dials and knobs. It was (almost) flawless.

Goldwings are so heavy they have reverse gear and legitimately need it. Yet they’re well balanced. A beached whale when parked, they’re manageable in motion. All that mass and power meant it didn’t adapt to the environment so much as create a warp bubble around itself. It shrugged off wind like a brick wall.

There were no particular flaws on this bike. It had a few scratches. At 70,000 miles it had endless life left in it.

I rode the beast thinking hard about the purchase. Every bit of my research had been proven true. Every step of the path came about in logical and intelligent procession from the one before.

Something was wrong.

I was miserable!

The sea of buttons (mostly) functioned perfectly. Did I really want them?

The LCD screen did a “greeting display” on start up (and there’s a menu stetting to change it). What’s the point of that?

There was an LCD screen and the analog dash and a million digital things on the dash too. There was air suspension with two pre-sets, reverse, CB, AM, FM, cassette (or maybe it was a CD changer, I forget), cruise control, gear display, saddlebag open indicator, and more. Gadgetry spread out before me like a computer workstation.

I spent a few miles testing every damn switch (two had minor issues). I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the radio. I could mute it which is functionally the same. But it’s NOT! It pissed me off that the LCD displayed the FM channel I no longer heard.

So I clicked a few buttons and now I was looking at a display of the the ambient temperature; which seemed redundant. I know the ambient temperature… I’m in it! I still wonder if there was an “off” button I never found?

The cruise control on/off button stuck a bit. As with the radio I hit the cancel button to get functionally the same behavior from a different control.

After a while I had it on cruise and was surfing FM stations. The bike rolled on like a force of nature but something felt “off”. Nervous energy was getting to me. I was playing with the radio to distract myself.

My stomach was churning. I was increasingly frantic. I thought maybe it was the price. I have enough money to buy this bike but just barely. I don’t like spending money. “Wasting” money on frivolities is brutally against my nature. Nothing seems more frivolous than a bike with a “boot up” display!

The radio was blaring Tom Petty. I appreciate the miracle of clear audio at 75 MPH but it just made me madder. Petty sometimes weirds me out. I see him as the apex of a boomer half-artist. Petty is always a solid base hit but he never swings for the bleachers. He’s the 401(k) of rock stars that never tries a lyric or note that might scare the normies. I began to long for Jimi Hendrix or Tchaikovsky. Did I miss the roar of wind or the steady rumbling engine of my old cruiser?

My eye twitched. I began to sweat. This was not right!

I’m trapped in an elevator; listening to an OK song while an OK life played out an OK day.

WTF made me think that!?!

The bike was effortlessly swishing down a two lane blacktop through proverbial amber waves of grain. Why wasn’t I laughing in the sunshine?

A meadowlark flapped away from my wake unnoticed.

This was the correct choice! I’d driven hours to this rendezvous. I had money in hand. The bike was perfect. I’ll never get a better deal on a better example of a better machine. Nothing weird to be discovered. No mystery engine gremlins. It was flat out mainstream engineering perfection. What kind of idiot rides perfection and bitches about it?

I felt like hurling.

I rode back to the seller, who was chatting happily with Mrs. Curmudgeon. She expected me to start cutting a check. The seller did too. He’d represented the bike honestly and the price was fair. Every statistic, number, data point, budget, and observation had all worked out.

My stomach was roiling. My head was pounding. I felt faint.

Grim determination seized me. “Just get this done and ride the fucking thing home. Don’t go on some weird vision quest. You can afford the obvious mainstream solution. You’ve earned something nice.”

A different determination fought back. “I’m nobody’s bitch. I hate how I feel. I won’t be backed into a corner on ANY deal.”

I stepped off the bike and handed the seller the keys. He was beaming and so was Mrs. Curmudgeon.

My mind was whirring. I haven’t felt so miserable in a very long time. OK bigshot, what’s it going to be?

“Your bike is perfect. Sadly, I’ve decided not to buy it.”

Everyone froze, even our dog felt a disturbance in the force. Everyone (including the dog) looked at me like I was a space alien. “Honey, you always freak out with big purchases, we can afford it.” Mrs. Curmudgeon has seen me get cold feet about financial decisions before.

Maybe that was it? I grew up mildly poor. I’ve had moments of absolute destitution. There’s a special dread only a person who’s been broke can harbor. If you’ve been there you know. If you don’t you don’t. Was that it? Probably. It made sense. Just the generic gut churning feeling I get whenever I cut a big check. Shake it off big fella’!

I wasn’t so sure of that. Maybe it was something else. Was it a superstitious foreboding? Was this the bike that would kill me? (The feeling was that strong!)

All I knew is that something was very wrong. Boring Tom Petty songs and careful studies of torque curves had put me in a place that wasn’t right. I’d built a path and then a track then rails and finally sideboards and now a cage. Cutting that check would lock it in for good!

I’d been on a bike where I didn’t see the meadowlark.

I felt like I’d briefly died and then coughed back to life at the juncture where I was supposed to cut a check. Everyone waited indulgently. I’m deeply appreciative of their indulgence. They were patient and kind while I had a war in my head.

Mrs. Curmudgeon was convinced I’d snap out of it. The seller was politely bemused. No need to push the sale on the weirdo losing his shit in the driveway. He’d sell the bike one way or the other.

Why do people do stupid things? Because they don’t stop doing stupid things. They get locked into a path; take each new step based on the last one. They lose the ability to change direction.

Fuck this! I shook the seller’s hand, apologized profusely, and retreated, sweaty and shaken, to our car. Mrs. Curmudgeon drove away slowly. She was giving me time to come to my senses and buy the bike. I was uncertain what the hell had stirred my pot. I was exhausted. I watched the bike recede in the distance. I was embarrassed by my crazy behavior.

Inside I seethed. Tom Fucking Petty? Not yet! I’m still me! I’m beholden to nobody.

After a few miles I calmed. Buying the bike would have been an irreversible choice (I’d have used up my budget). Walking away was just temporary. Things weren’t that bad.

Worst case scenario, I keep all my money and still have two awesome motorcycles.

Well played; I give a thankful nod to the half of my brain that won the war. I lost nothing but dignity. Some other Goldwing might cost a little more and that’s it. There’s always another Goldwing. Honda made 640,000 Goldwings. New ones are made daily. They’re not cheap but they’re hardly rare.

I was certain a Goldwing is the best choice but maybe not now. One’s life doesn’t happen all at once. I don’t have to lock one in immediately. If I buy something technically inferior in the meantime that’s OK. If I get a fucking Ducati it’s nobody’s business but mine and the chiropractor that’ll benefit from it. If I buy something unreliable then I’ll deal with mechanical issues… my Dodge got death wobble and I lived through that.

I’d begun to dislike the path I was on but I’d locked down my own thinking to just that path. The person most likely to screw you over… is you. I’m glad I walked.

Was my action logical? Nope? Intelligent? Maybe not. Do I regret it? Not a damn bit!

The hunt continues. (Actually it’s done now but I haven’t written the rest.)

More later..

P.S. An hour later the seller texted that the bike had been sold. Whomever bought it will surely be delighted. It was a good bike.

I’ve been on the prowl for a new (used) motorcycle. I mentioned this in Memento Mori and Motorcycle Hunt: Close Call With Greatness. You’re only getting the high points (like all good hunts, it’s an individual journey). I’ve been sniffing the breeze and watching the horizon, confident something will happen.

Something did indeed happen. I either narrowly avoided a mistake or inexplicably flaked on a great deal!

Curmudgeon’s Navel Gazing:

Did I make the correct choice? Let’s back away from the trees of motorcycles and discuss the forest of life: Why do people do stupid shit? Some stupid shit is gloriously innocent: “Hold my beer and watch this…” Nothing wrong with that. Other stupid shit is so predictably doomed to fail it hurts to watch. That’s the shit to avoid!

Ever see people do stuff so absolutely mind bogglingly moronic you wonder how they derived the slightest hope it would succeed? Think of paths were people march into bad results that are more or less a certainty. The fool that smokes 3 packs a day while bitching about their health. The moron that’s always broke who just took on more payments. The dude who eats shit from his harpy wife until she takes half his money and runs off with the UPS guy.

Many of us sleepwalk into the woodchipper… repeatedly. We’ve all seen it. It’s a human thing. We need self-control to avoid predictable failures.

It’s hard to plumb an individual man’s mind. It’s easier to observe big groups as they take obviously unwise paths. This is best examined for a time and place far removed from your current situation; thus to avoid your own biases. War is often (usually!) avoidable and it’s always horrible. With 20/20 hindsight the precursors that created most wars seem unthinkably obvious.

I suspect the American Civil War was like that. Pressure built for whole human lifetimes. Nobody diffused it in advance. Few people correctly predicted the hell that ensued. Everyone thought it would be a spat… a faffing about… a skirmish. It was nothing like that. Americans were incredibly effective at killing Americans. Things happened in a way that didn’t happen in Britain or Brazil.

What’s weird is that it wasn’t sudden. The ethical division in the populace had been there literally since the founding. As Lincoln so eloquently put, we had four score and seven (87) years to sort our shit out. We didn’t. Many nations had to thread the same needle. Many did so without bloodshed. Why not us?

I think we deliberately chose to avoid resolving things and instead used it as a political hot potato; a loser’s game in the long run. We let a real problem become merely one-upmanship. Each new State became a brand new battle. “Will the new State side with Team A or Team B? How does the addition of that new State change the balance of power? Who gains? Who loses?” Two points of view never finding or seeking compromise. Keeping the kettle on boil instead of inching toward resolution. America played politics until things had already gone to shit and by then neither side could find a way out.

A forever game of political one-upmanship instead of resolving legitimate issues. Sound familiar?

The “States as pieces on a gameboard” thing still happens right now… or rather it’s frozen in a stalemate. Puerto Rico isn’t a State. It’s bigger than some States. It could be a State. Yet, if we add it, some would benefit and some would lose… so it stays balanced on the knife edge of a nation that has razor sharp political edges. Maybe that’s for the best, I’m not in Puerto Rico so I don’t know. But it’s odd that we went from 13 colonies to 50 states and then lost the use of the tool. (We last added states in 1959; Hawaii and Alaska.)

Existing States can be split as needed. It has happened before. West Virginia split from Virginia in 1863. Maine separated from Massachusetts in 1820. Now that’s considered “unthinkable”. If we split a State someone would benefit and someone would lose. Notice that release of pressure or responsive governance is irrelevant? It’s not even considered. It’s all about short term wins and losses in the forever game.

A rancher in East Rattlesnake, Oregon; where it barely rains, the neighbor is six miles away, and coyotes outnumber people has to live under rules made by a foreign power. His State is run from Hippietopia where it never stops raining, there are more lesbian drug dispensaries than tractor supply stores, and people consider skate boards a legitimate form of transportation. Chaining those two disparate worlds together is exclusively for the benefit of people who care for the game. The welfare of ranchers or skateboarders isn’t relevant.

The dude trying to run fence isn’t selfish. He legitimately chafes under regulations made by people who are unlike him and possibly hate him. His part of the State can’t split off because endless friction is not just tolerated but embraced.

How long has it been this way? Has the rancher eaten shit for his full 87 years yet?

Back to my original example, after decades of building pressure, Republicans elected their first president. The Republican party specifically supported abolition. It was a hotly contested election. As soon as the guy was sworn in, everyone freaked out. Sound familiar?

(I pause here to help uninformed victims of America’s dumbed down public schools. Many if not all societies had slavery at one time; from Aztecs to Egyptians, from Vikings to Venice, from Congo to Constantinople, Byzantium to Brazil. Slavery faded out in fits and starts (with many caveats); often due to boring economic factors or occasionally because of soaring enlightenment ideals. America’s transition involved the first Republican President; Lincoln. Even now people debate the way the mess happened. Ironically, most folks who riot in our urban areas on sunny summer weekends; gathering to piss and moan and stamp their feet at the base of a George Floyd statue erected on Martin Luther King Jr. boulevard have no idea of this. They howl against the party that took up arms to end slavery. Before you set out to change the world, read a book!)

To me, war seems the least wise way to resolve the situation. Why wasn’t 87 years enough to figure it out? Careers were made on the endless struggle. Lives were lived in support or opposition. Earnest, dedicated, citizens on both sides bled out together in Gettysburg. It could have been an eight decade series of committee meetings.

Here’s the lesson I take from it: Humans are herd animals. Once they settle on a path, change is beyond the mind of most humans. A self-actuated human can break free but the rest will plod, stupid and complacent, like robots. Each step is another step on a path that was laid out long ago. There will be times when someone says “this is stupid, lets see if we find a new way”… but it won’t resonate. Humans unthinkingly continue doing stupid shit until you bury them in box lots.

We all carry this weakness. Only the use of our barely understood monkey derived mind gives us a small chance to escape. When shit seems sketchy, a humble man will ask himself “am I the cause”. Maybe, if I’m on a track that’s “wrong” or “stupid”, I can figure it out in time. “Oh no! I’m being an idiot! I’ll stop following this path right now!”

When’s the last time you adjusted your sails to the changing wind? If you don’t occasionally change settings you’re not steering the ship. Fools take the next step because they already took the last one. Don’t be a fool.

Now back to the story.

Less Heady Thoughts About Motorcycles:

I researched the living shit out of old motorcycles. I considered my expectations of the new acquisition, what old machines could do, how reliable they were, how much they cost, etc…

Initially I was thinking of an old Honda Goldwing GL1200. There’s a lot going for the opposed 4 cylinder engine and Goldwings basically created the tourer motorcycle market. They’re common, popular, cheap, often well cared for, and the average age of the original purchasers is geriatric. I would re-home some geezer’s GL1200 and give it a second life. (GL1200 photo from Wikipedia.)

Unfortunately, I live in Bumfuck Egypt. Used vehicles here are a mixed bag. Many GL1200s were worn and mistreated. Cheap, but shot. I’d have to drive a million miles to find a good one or move up the food chain.

Moving up the food chain, I pondered the advantages of the next generation Goldwing; the GL1500. It’s a huge step up. The GL1500 gained 2 cylinders and 300 cc displacement. They are newer in vintage and everything mechanical was significantly improved. Plus, I was getting antsy about the single and scary flaw in the GL1200, the stator.

So yours truly anteed up his mental budget and started looking for a GL1500. (Photo from Wikipedia.)

I don’t much like the GL1500. I think it’s too boxy. I’m not overly concerned about aesthetics but the GL1500 is my least favorite Goldwing. Still, there’s no doubt it was a better value. The specifications and reviews were clear. There is no real flaw to the GL1500. Even people who hate them admit they’re awesome.

But if new is better what about the GL1800? (Photo from Wikipedia.)

Comparing a GL1800 (hit the market in 2001) to a GL1200 (hit the market in 1983) is to compare a donkey to a spaceship. The Goldwing GL1800 is a fuckin’ BEAST! They’re simply awesome. I’d be gaining components that increase reliability, fuel injection, LCD screens that aren’t so old, radios that are more modern, etc…

Thus it passed that I’d “leveled up three times”. Soon I was test driving an absolutely excellent specimen of the 5th Generation Goldwing, the GL1800.

Stay tuned.

Via the comments:

Come on man, you tell us you took photos, but then you don’t show them. Where’s the photos?

Photo 1: That ain’t sunset… it was mid afternoon on a sunny day just minutes before. It’s blurry because I didn’t have long to fiddle with camera settings. It was rolling up on me like a freight train.

Photo 2: This is the clear “inviting sky” to which I fled. It was only “tame” in comparison. I’m rusty with my weather knowledge but I’d guess a “cumulus” that wants to be a thunderhead got enough energy at the base until it just plain busted through a layer of air that was minding its own business above it. There were several of these and once they penetrated the flat layer they started getting tall fast. Lotta’ energy in the sky that afternoon.

It’s random story time here at Curmudgeon Compound…

I stepped out of the Dr. Office feeling like I’d met an angel. The first doctor in years that has been smart, aware of medical pros and cons, and seemed to care if I live or die. A miracle!

I bump into him in the hallway. Someone is handing him his keys.

“Looks like it’ll rain.” He says.

“If it rains, I’ll get wet.” I shrug.

He smiles as if I’ve said the deepest thing ever. With most doctors I’d assume he’s mentally chiding me for owning a bike; assuming I’ll pancake into a Kenworth within a fortnight. With this cat it’s hard to say. Dummies and NPCs are an open book. It’s hard to judge smart people.

I head out to the lobby and all hell is breaking loose. “SEVERE STORM WATCH” is being announced on a PA. Everyone looks at me, the dumbass with a motorcycle.

They’re lowering the shades on the windows.

“Afraid of blowing debris?” I ask.

“It’s policy.”

“You have a policy to lower the shades during storms?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The lady messing with the shades vapor locks. She has no idea.

Well, that’s that. The blissful moments after meeting a good mind are gone. I’m back with the toads who’re drawing shades because someone wrote that on a piece of paper. Might even be a good idea. What do I know?

At a desk I ask a woman for details about the storm watch. When did it start? How long? What area?

She has no idea but hands over her cell phone. She’d been watching a radar animation. A wicked looking streak of red and orange is headed our way.

“Looks like I’ll go half a mile and hole up at the burger joint.” I say.

“Be careful.” Her eyes are wide. Like I’m going to fight a dragon.

I thank her and head to the foyer. That’s weird, not a drop of rain is falling. I hastily zip up my jacket and don my helmet. I step out into the air. Now I can see the situation more clearly.

To the north, it looks like hell itself is on its way to flatten the county. To the east. The sky is clear. We’re under a broad, well defined, black edge… the edge of a system that’s not messing around. The air feels tense. Clearly all hell is going to break loose and very soon.

My plan was to ride to the burger joint. I’m starving anyway. But I want to go east. The sky is clear to the east. I judge that black edge, moving with the resolution of a bulldozer… it’s in motion. Flowing fast.

How fast? Motorcycle fast?

Decision time.

My tires are good, the pavement is still dry, the bike is in proper repair, I’m a pretty good rider, and I spent a fortune on this jacket (which is supposedly rainproof). I fire up the bike. Left toward the receding clear sky, or right to a burger joint half a mile away in the gloom. In that direction a streetlight is clicking on; it’s that dark and it’s the middle of the afternoon.

This is what we train for.

I’m going for it!

Within 10 seconds of stepping to where I could get a good view, my plan of “hunker down” has become “bug out”. 30 seconds later I’m in the saddle and rolling onto the main road.

I see lightning in the mirror. I see the edge of that black cloud right overhead. The tempting clear sky in front of me is a couple miles out; toward the east. Throttle up!

Turns out I made the right call. Ten minutes later I get out from under the gloom. The storm was moving fast but not motorcycle fast. Not a single raindrop fell on me.

Once I was in the clear I stopped to take a few photos. The grandeur of nature is amazing. Lets all pause and acknowledge that when nature tries to kill you, she does so beautifully.

I watch a bit for funnel clouds. I’m not seeing any. The storm begins to catch up. It’s not headed my way but it’s so huge that it’s growing toward the east as most of it’s massive size flows to the south.

Cheeky of me to have stopped!

I hop back on and ride the rest of the way home. The storm nips on my heels but never catches me. I park in the garage nice and dry.

“I made a very good decision.” I repeat to myself, thinking of nature’s deadly storms and society’s madness at the same time.

I hang up my jacket, pet the dog, and take off my riding boots.

BOOM… the wall of weather hits the house. The dog whines. The temperature drops twenty degrees in five minutes. Sure would suck to be out in that!

I spent the rest of the evening reading a good book and calming the dog. It had been a good day.

It’s random story time here at Curmudgeon Compound…

I got to the doctor after a little bloodletting. By now my stern outlook had been sanded down. Nice people are a calming influence. I was feeling positively civil.

The doctor bustled in followed by a nurse with a computer on a rolling table. Apparently doctors have stenographers now?

It starts out as I fear. He ignores me and starts clicking at his database. He’s trying for small talk and I suck at small talk. Somehow he focuses on a Disney-ish castle on a poster. “What a pretty view.”

“It’s Neuschwanstein Castle.” I say, immediately regretting it. Nobody wants to be “that guy”. I don’t deliberately try to be an asshole… it just comes naturally.

“Ever been there?” He asks, missing (or choosing to ignore) my rudeness.

“Nah, I once passed through Germany on the way to X. That’s it.”

“Oh X? Is that a nice place to visit?”

“It was OK but kinda’ third worldy.” I pause, thinking my own thoughts. “You know, that was 30 years ago, America is a lot more third worldy now.” I wave around as if our modern Clown World can be summed up with a gesture.

“But we do OK up here in our corner of nowhere eh?”

What’s this? A fellow human? Someone who’s been seeing things happen? Wow!

“Yeah, it’s OK here.”

“I worry sometime I’ll drop by <City Z> and it’ll be a crater. I’ll be on a weekend trip to buy Christmas presents and the place will be in mid collapse. People are nuts.”

“Me too.” I’m wondering where this will go. Ours lives have been so “Sovietized” that when someone has similar views (especially in real life) I’m surprised.

He chuckles and points at the database. My deplorable failure to get the vax is highlighted in red. “Want that?”

“You and five of your best friends can try to force it. See what happens.”

At this he lets out a guffaw. The stenographer / nurse is giggling. She’s seen this give and take before. I’m not sure what’s going on, is this guy a Fed? Am I about to get framed as a badthinker?

“You made a very good decision.” He nods approvingly.

What. The. Fuck?

This dude is a doctor. As far as I know he either got the shot or got fired… but then again I don’t know if that was a strictly enforced policy up here in Bumfuck Egypt. Maybe in Bumfuck Egypt they never got around to enforcing weird shit? The nurse is smiling. Are these people refugees from madness elsewhere? Or is this homegrown common sense still rooted in the soil?

“They threatened to fire me!” I grumble.

“Pointless.” He clicks on the database. “Your weight back then wasn’t bad. Stats looked good. You were getting exercise?”

“Three days a week.” I swell with pride.

“Covid wouldn’t have taken you out.” He waves at the helmet. “A bike might have killed you but not the ‘vid.”

“I know.”

“Me too. Firing people… such a bad idea!”

The stenographer isn’t writing any of this down. I’m gradually feeling at ease. The doc checks my blood pressure. The earlier nurse had already checked it but what do I know?

“Look at that.” He winks to the stenographer / nurse. “Five points lower just letting off some steam.”

Holy shit, my blood pressure (which was OK but not perfect) is now 5 points “better”!

Stress matters and the doc knows that. I’m impressed. The doc starts picking away at my data and I’m shocked that the blood test from half an hour ago is already on his screen… plus the new blood pressure he’s typed in. The stenographer / nurse is tapping away as we discuss my diet, the meaning of all those chemistry markers, some vitamin details, etc… The doc actually knows the difference between continuous and discrete variables and how that matters on the blood test results. Wow!

It’s the first time in years I’ve had a doctor that appears to care if I live or die. Not only that but he’s on the ball. Doctors used to be drawn from a population of smart cookies but then they suddenly started acting dumber than a sack of hammers. This is an old school doc. He knows stuff. Where there’s uncertainty he says so. He’s happily moving back and forth through my data from different time periods looking for long term signals.

Where did this man come from?

Somehow the topic goes back to firings. “You know,” he adds, “Mayo fired something like 700 nurses.”

I’m dimly aware that Mayo clinic is somewhere important. Top of the line place probably. Like Johns Hopkins or whatever. A place where millionaires and Senators (who are inexplicably millionaires too) get treatment… and I think they do medical research. (Though I wonder if there is anywhere that does legitimate research anymore.)

“That sucks, they had to replace 700 experienced people with 700 n00bs. That’s a setback.”

His eyes turn cold. “Not a setback. A loss. You never come back from that.”

We’re both silent for a bit. Damn. I see the world though new eyes. It was hard for me. Must have been harder for him. He’s clearly top notch and paying attention. What’s it like to be a skilled doc in a world on the verge of Nuremberg crimes? How did he survive the last 3 years? Is this where he landed? Was he fleeing elsewhere? Was he at Mayo?

“Well,” he concludes, “it doesn’t matter to you.” Just like that, the terrible setback is registered as just a societal loss and nothing we in our remote world can change. Stay in shape if you can, because you must. I’ve seen other people think the same thing. “You’re doing pretty well. You could use the gym again but who doesn’t need that? Stay away from vegetable fats, Crisco, margarine..”

“I eat a lot of steak. Wild game…”

“That’s fine. Drag an elk home and eat it whole… still better than margarine on wonder bread.”

“I’d guessed that.”

“You’re right. In general, if it didn’t exist 200 years ago, don’t eat it now. And don’t let them stick you.”

“Of course.”

It was the best Doctor’s visit I’ve ever had!

As I’m getting up to leave, someone rushes in. “Doctor, we need you car keys! Bob noticed you left your window down, it’s going to rain.”

He handed over his keys. I was impressed at the human kindness. “They noticed your car? Great staff!”

“People are OK up here.”

I wanted to hug him!

One more post to follow…

It’s random story time here at Curmudgeon Compound…

I rode my motorcycle to a medical appointment. Thank God for motorcycles! It was good to get some sun. I enjoyed the ride as much as I dreaded the visit.

Having ridden to what I will always think of as “the scene of the crime”, I strode through the door with the attitude I’ll have from 2020 until I die; acknowledging medical personnel did evil. Having witnessed it, I know they’d willingly do evil again.

Were they cackling supervillains bent on destruction? Nah, that would engender more respect from me. They did, as they’ll explain away to themselves as they try to sleep at night, mostly “minor” evil.

Weak people are always willing to do what weak people always do.

The word “trustworthy” excludes the weak.

Evil at the behest of a bureaucracy? Sure. Evil to keep their jobs? Sure. Evil because that’s how the incentives were stacked? Sure.

Doesn’t matter to me; it’s still fuckin’ evil. When they strapped grandpa into a ventilator even though it was an unwise choice they did it because money was tied to ventilator use. Initially, some of them may have believed that was the best treatment… which makes them merely wrong. But that only excuses those first few weeks. There’s no sin in being wrong. Sin comes from doing wrong after witnessing clear evidence that it’s harmful.

Depending on how carefully they observed victims of their treatments, doctors and nurses gradually fell on a spectrum from utterly incompetent to forcing lingering death on helpless people for a subsidy.

I wonder what the subsidy was? The best I can sort from muddled sources is an extra 20% on the top for any hospitalization with the word “covid”. That’s a full 20% extra on the already high base rate for a ventilator. 30 ounces of silver is worth a little under $700 in today’s dollars. How much did they get from grandpa’s death?

I reserve my harshest thoughts for people smart enough to know it was bad medicine yet willing to do it anyway. Might as well throw puppies into a wood chipper. To injure the innocent is unforgiveable. Sick people trusted them!

At a less esoteric level they withheld ivermectin and bitched that it was horse medicine. A  safe, cheap, well tested treatment. Even if it didn’t work, who gives a shit? If an adult American citizen wants to try it, why the hell not? In a world of face tattoos and expensive car leases the thing “too risky” to allow a Citizen was a dose of malaria treatment? I call bullshit.

I walked in that door knowing medical people did what they were told… even if people suffered. They complied first and didn’t bother to treat illness except as an afterthought. TicTok morons have the attention span of a mouse. They’ve ret-conned their memory and “let it go”. I can’t.

Doctors and nurses took the first step on the path to cattle cars! Until I see Fauchi’s corpse in a gibbet I can’t be sure it won’t happen again.

Have you guessed my mood?

I strutted past seven (count ’em SEVEN!) long ignored placards about Covid. All I needed is what they call “annual checkup” and I call “the vig”.

A “vig” is the fee charged by a bookie for accepting a gambler’s wager. Personally, I’m wagering a healthy if grumpy asshole benefits from minor routine medicine in a manner that outweighs the risk they’ll fuck up and kill me. I bet otherwise most of the last three years.

If I hit the gym more often I’d probably stay away entirely. Like everyone at the doctor’s office I wished I was working out more. I bailed on the gym in 2020 and got complacent. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.

Now it was time to get “serviced” by a doctor. Doctors don’t have it easy. Their nuts are in a vice. They’re indentured servants owned by the medical complex. They’re trapped in a system of pimps in suits managing credentialed hoes in labcoats.

I fuckin’ hate ’em!

The woman at the front desk (for reasons only known to HR there has never ever been a man at the front desk) greeted my sweaty, armored motorcycle jacket wearing, grim self with an absolutely radiant smile. Actual humanity? Wow! You can’t fight kindness! I smiled back; which probably looked like a hyena getting ready for dental work but my heart was in the right place.

“Riding today?” She prompted.

My first thought was to be a wiseass. “I carry a helmet in case I need to pilot a jet”. With effort I reign myself in and let small talk ensue. “Yep, nice day out.”

“They say it’s going to rain.”

“Then I’ll get wet.”

She ignores me and continues beaming. “Labs are on the right.” Her giant smile is obviously well practiced. It borders on a superpower. She should give lessons!

Labs? WTF! I don’t like surprises in medical buildings! Regardless, it was about the only thing that wouldn’t piss me off too much. I’ve got plenty of blood to spare and I love properly administered diagnostic chemistry! I trust chemical detections (if not interpretations) more than I trust the monkeys administering “medicine”. (Don’t get me started on weirdly misused covid detection methods. That was  damn near divination as far as I can tell.)

At the lab, a bubbly woman takes blood and tells me all about her plans to have a Harley-Davidson. There are motorcycle riders and people who like Harleys. Occasionally someone is both. If a person loves motorcycles and just happens to choose a Harley as one excellent choice among many good options that’s a rider. The opposite is someone who’d die of misery if handed the keys to a perfectly good Suzuki or Triumph. Many Harley owners “buy in” with a Harley as the price of admission to join a group. The group can tolerate only one brand.

She sees a helmet and probably knows nothing about motorcycles. Thus, she can only conclude I’m a “Harley person”. She’s super happy. If I mentioned that my “American made iron” is a Honda that was built in Ohio she might cry. For that matter it looks new but it’s 24 years old. I let it go. See how nice I am?

I’m not loyal to any company. I have a Yamaha and a Honda. (Admittedly the Honda is a flat out rip-off of protectionist era Harley-Davidson styling. But it’s laden with the sweet sweet engineering of Japanese perfectionists. Honda wisely kept all the good stuff carefully hidden but I appreciate it more every year.)

I’m shopping for another Honda. I don’t tell her that. She might not know Hondas exist.

I wonder if she has a Harley tattoo? Everyone that age has a tattoo of something. No way to ask without sounding creepier than I already look.

I wouldn’t buy a Harley unless it was half the going market price and came with a free Suzuki on the side. This is mostly due to preference but also I’m a cheapskate. I find myself wondering how a nurse (phlebotomist) can afford the most expensive brand this side of a Ducati?

Her story develops and I soon know. It involves someone who had a Harley. That guy kicked the bucket, the bike persisted, passing through a series of cousins or whatever until she nabbed it. She relays the story of how she drove it into a ditch and I get the idea she probably doesn’t have a motorcycle endorsement on her license. She says it’s all ok because her husband will be the main operator. Hmm… someone else paid for it, customer base roughly the age of dead, not a chance of an empowered female solo rider…

Holy stereotypes! She’s checked every box in the Harley playbook! She did it in less than 5 minutes. I’m impressed! The only groups more devout are Mormons and Packers Fans.

She does a great job with needles and such. I watch to make damn sure she’s extracting blood and not injecting anything. I wish her well. I really mean it. I sincerely hope she winds up having a great time wearing rebellious black t-shirts like all the other people wearing black t-shirts; ideally at Sturgis. It must be cool to have a “tribe”. She has joined something. I cannot.

“Looks like it might rain.” She says as I move on.

“Yeah, I’m gonna’ get wet.” I chuckle.

Now for the Doctor… stay tuned.

My last post mentioned spring; the season of renewal. I wish I’d said it as well as Adam Piggott:

It is with great gratitude that I find myself here at this time. We are suffering in a time of great upheaval but the beauty of the world is still there if we care to look. And I like nothing better than walking in the rain, a sometimes lit pipe in my mouth, and the faithful hound trotting along beside me, happily wet and bedraggled.

We are all engaged in writing many words recording our great disappointment with the world as it stands. But there is also need of joy, of acknowledging the gifts which we have been given.

Having considered Adam’s lofty words, I made the time to appreciate the wonder of my derelict homestead. Here goes…

I’ve no quarrel with dandelions. They look pretty, they grow very fast in the spring, they hold the soil in drought, and free range chickens love ’em. These will be mowed in due time (which never seems to hinder them much), but for now I’m too lazy to hitch the mower deck. I’ll give myself another week to enjoy the colors.

The old apple tree never ceases to amaze me. It’s older than dirt yet every spring it blooms like a champ. Bees and hummingbirds swarm the old tree.

All rural men have a few “I’ll fix that later” bits of yard art. It’s tradition and it’s good.

This is a ’41 Allis Chalmers that hasn’t moved for a while. Someday, if I find the time before it rusts out, it’ll run again.

The old tractor had a surprise for me. Do you see the fleeing wing on the right side?

The robin’s nest will make a mess of the distributor but I can live with it. Just look a the color of those eggs!