Is there any more accurate long term weather forecast than the Old Farmer's Almanac? Yes, there is, as a matter of fact. All you need do is visit the BMW Motorcycle Owners' Association web site and find out where their annual rally will be held next summer. The air in that place, on that week, is iron clad guaranteed to be thick as a brick, hot as an oven, foul as an Inuit sweat lodge. Go to that place you will see hordes of scarlet faced yuppies panting in armored ATGATT as they stagger from bike to booth. Guaranteed. Happens every year. Zackly like dat.
The MOA Rally came to Bloomsburg PA some years back. The Bionic Freckle (the artiste formerly known as RedHead until a knee replacement earned her Bionic) and I rode our BMW R1200CLC big bagger named Annie (cause we bought her for our anniversary) quite a bit back then. Neither of us are rally-goers in the least. But we figured, as long as they were bringing the event so close to us, we might as well go try to figure out what is the fascination with this flocking together like geese on a stubblefield. There was no way we were going to stay in a tent at the fairgrounds cheek by jowl with all the other tents and queue in line for a porta potty. Neither did the prospect of some Motel 8 by the highway hold any allure. So I rented us a bed and breakfast suite for a week, an hour and a half north, alongside Loyalsock Creek, opposite World's End, besides Ricket's Glen, at the foot of a winery vineyard, up in the mountains, surrounded by state game lands, a dozen miles outside of Dushore, a crossroads town whose distinction is a cafe where model trains run round the joint on a high shelf, a NAPA, and the only stop light in the county.
Brother, it was effin hot. Record breaking. Spirit breaking. In the mountains, nearly no one had air conditioning; no, not even businesses. Never needed it. Our B&B sure didn't. So we spent our days riding Annie through the forest, in shorts and Ts, attempting to air our armpits. Tried riding down the mountain side toward the Rally one morning; but the air as we descended coalesced into a thick yellow studge you couldn't see through much less breathe. So we turned round and fled.
I believe it was that same afternoon, we were winding gears through game lands north of World's End, when a brute black bear bull came barreling out of a hedgrow, snout straight ahead, tail up, you know how animals do when they scoot, and right into our path. Time slowed to a crawl. Now, your BMW R1200CLC has miraculous linked ABS power brakes which will stop you on a dime and jand you eight and a half cents change. But soon in that crawling second I carefully calculated I would strike about a penny short. The last thing I wanted to do was T-bone Yogi. I imagined us both tumbling in our shorts and Ts, skinned up and flailing, land atop an angry bear, and then the hot bike pile of all of us. Wrassling Yogi was not my idea of a pleasant afternoon. Keep the front wheel out of the picture. So I twisted the throttle far as she would go. Before I could strategize farther, he hit us. His head struck dead amidships on the starbord side. Right behind my calf. Right in front of her shin. Buried his head in Annie's rear shock. Scootched us sideways two three feet. Snout seemed lodged in there. Left paw in the works aft. Right paw beneath. I was keeping Annie upright, is the most I could do, I must admit. Good thing I'd the foresight to lean right as he came in so hos weight wouldn't tumble us over. Good thing Annie has torque enough to keep the wheels rolling. But that bear needed out of there now.
Well. First time Cynthia threw crockery at me I ducked and when it hit the wall I exclaimed "Ay, Lucy!" in my best Ricky Ricardo. Wrong thing to say. Not appreciated. Just slipped out. After that, I always called herRedHead. Cause, you know what they say about redheads? Yeah, that's true. Many years later, a knee replacement, she became the Bionic Freckle. Still that redhead temper. So. Now. All those years practice swatting me across the snout finally paid off. Bionic Freckle swatted that honey loving monster right across his ample snout. He fell out. In the rear view I watched him tumble a bit, gather his legs under, and leap into the woods. We were still upright.
Came to a stop. Bear slobber all down our legs and splattered from front fairing to trunk. Blood speckles on my shorts. From all which we deduced we mmusta knocked the living snot out of that big bull bear. Batch of bear hairs caught in the emblem on the starboard pannier. She pulled them off and stuck them in her pill box. Otherwise all in good shape. I was keen to walk back and see where the bear had gotten to. But the Freck insisted I let angry bears lie. Her hand was bruised from where she whacked him. Couple distant bystanders hoeing their ditch stood there jaws hanging to the ground. Could not believe what they saw.
Nothing else to see. Climbed aboard. Motored off. Here comes the funny part. You ready? Bout two hundred yards down the road, Bionic Freckle remarks: "Well, I guess we can scratch that off our bucket list". "Woman!" I exclaimed. "You got entirely too much time on your hands! Here I am, my bucket list, maybe see Mount Rushmore once. You've got your list complete down to hit a bear with a motorcycle and live to tell. Cheezus."
Sign five miles along a sign says winery. Figured we need to celebrate. Stop in for a bottle. BF wants her purse. It's in the right pannier. Don't know why they always want their purse every time you stop to spend when it's your pocket is the one has to do the work. But. Discover the starboard crash bar is bent back across the pannier; can't get it open. Borrow a two by four and a maul from the winery guys to beat the crash bar back in place. In the course of which, told them the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the bear hair. Stopped at a steakhouse tavern where, if not exactly cool, it was at least shady. Told some bikers there the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the hairs from the pill box. Discovered the rear brake banjo bolt was leaking. Needed a female torx socket I didn't have to tighten it up. Met some scarlet faced ATGATT clad yuppies at a light. None of them had that female torx either. In the course of which, told them the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the bear hair. (Believe it or not, next morning the local NAPA had the female torx socket required.) Breakfast with our hosts and fellow guests. In the course of which, told them the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the bear hair. Somewhere along there, Bionic Freckle had transmogrified into Bearswatter.
Hit that same pub steakhouse next afternoon. Greeted by a raft of "Are you the guys...?" In the course of which, told them the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the bear hair. Left the steakhouse half pizzled. Riding back to the B&B, two miles up the road there's a deer stepping out from the brush a hundred yards in front. Takes one look, eyes widen, says to himself: "There's them sumbidges papa bear was telling us...", turned round and leapt back in the woods. Never saw a deer turn round before. Half mile farther there's a turkey. Takes one look, neck stretches out, says to self: "There's them ursacidal maniacs hit papa bear...". Turns round and windmills back in. The animals had no trouble believing the story. The moral is, when you swat the bear, keep the hair.
Now, the Speckled Bearswatter is a plump little bird of, shall we say delicate temperament, with a song which sounds like giggles. Being a girlie girl, she is always keen to squander my elusive sponduits on useless porcelain and glass fragilities. Best gift I ever gave her was an illuminated rosewood curio. I call it the Crappe Racque. Inside this Crappe Racque now dwells a small, suitably useless, senselessly fragile, known by certain terms familiar to girls but indescribable by men, exhorbitant glass container. The bear hairs are in there. You don't know whether to believe me? Drop by and we'll show you the bear hair.
The MOA Rally came to Bloomsburg PA some years back. The Bionic Freckle (the artiste formerly known as RedHead until a knee replacement earned her Bionic) and I rode our BMW R1200CLC big bagger named Annie (cause we bought her for our anniversary) quite a bit back then. Neither of us are rally-goers in the least. But we figured, as long as they were bringing the event so close to us, we might as well go try to figure out what is the fascination with this flocking together like geese on a stubblefield. There was no way we were going to stay in a tent at the fairgrounds cheek by jowl with all the other tents and queue in line for a porta potty. Neither did the prospect of some Motel 8 by the highway hold any allure. So I rented us a bed and breakfast suite for a week, an hour and a half north, alongside Loyalsock Creek, opposite World's End, besides Ricket's Glen, at the foot of a winery vineyard, up in the mountains, surrounded by state game lands, a dozen miles outside of Dushore, a crossroads town whose distinction is a cafe where model trains run round the joint on a high shelf, a NAPA, and the only stop light in the county.
Brother, it was effin hot. Record breaking. Spirit breaking. In the mountains, nearly no one had air conditioning; no, not even businesses. Never needed it. Our B&B sure didn't. So we spent our days riding Annie through the forest, in shorts and Ts, attempting to air our armpits. Tried riding down the mountain side toward the Rally one morning; but the air as we descended coalesced into a thick yellow studge you couldn't see through much less breathe. So we turned round and fled.
I believe it was that same afternoon, we were winding gears through game lands north of World's End, when a brute black bear bull came barreling out of a hedgrow, snout straight ahead, tail up, you know how animals do when they scoot, and right into our path. Time slowed to a crawl. Now, your BMW R1200CLC has miraculous linked ABS power brakes which will stop you on a dime and jand you eight and a half cents change. But soon in that crawling second I carefully calculated I would strike about a penny short. The last thing I wanted to do was T-bone Yogi. I imagined us both tumbling in our shorts and Ts, skinned up and flailing, land atop an angry bear, and then the hot bike pile of all of us. Wrassling Yogi was not my idea of a pleasant afternoon. Keep the front wheel out of the picture. So I twisted the throttle far as she would go. Before I could strategize farther, he hit us. His head struck dead amidships on the starbord side. Right behind my calf. Right in front of her shin. Buried his head in Annie's rear shock. Scootched us sideways two three feet. Snout seemed lodged in there. Left paw in the works aft. Right paw beneath. I was keeping Annie upright, is the most I could do, I must admit. Good thing I'd the foresight to lean right as he came in so hos weight wouldn't tumble us over. Good thing Annie has torque enough to keep the wheels rolling. But that bear needed out of there now.
Well. First time Cynthia threw crockery at me I ducked and when it hit the wall I exclaimed "Ay, Lucy!" in my best Ricky Ricardo. Wrong thing to say. Not appreciated. Just slipped out. After that, I always called herRedHead. Cause, you know what they say about redheads? Yeah, that's true. Many years later, a knee replacement, she became the Bionic Freckle. Still that redhead temper. So. Now. All those years practice swatting me across the snout finally paid off. Bionic Freckle swatted that honey loving monster right across his ample snout. He fell out. In the rear view I watched him tumble a bit, gather his legs under, and leap into the woods. We were still upright.
Came to a stop. Bear slobber all down our legs and splattered from front fairing to trunk. Blood speckles on my shorts. From all which we deduced we mmusta knocked the living snot out of that big bull bear. Batch of bear hairs caught in the emblem on the starboard pannier. She pulled them off and stuck them in her pill box. Otherwise all in good shape. I was keen to walk back and see where the bear had gotten to. But the Freck insisted I let angry bears lie. Her hand was bruised from where she whacked him. Couple distant bystanders hoeing their ditch stood there jaws hanging to the ground. Could not believe what they saw.
Nothing else to see. Climbed aboard. Motored off. Here comes the funny part. You ready? Bout two hundred yards down the road, Bionic Freckle remarks: "Well, I guess we can scratch that off our bucket list". "Woman!" I exclaimed. "You got entirely too much time on your hands! Here I am, my bucket list, maybe see Mount Rushmore once. You've got your list complete down to hit a bear with a motorcycle and live to tell. Cheezus."
Sign five miles along a sign says winery. Figured we need to celebrate. Stop in for a bottle. BF wants her purse. It's in the right pannier. Don't know why they always want their purse every time you stop to spend when it's your pocket is the one has to do the work. But. Discover the starboard crash bar is bent back across the pannier; can't get it open. Borrow a two by four and a maul from the winery guys to beat the crash bar back in place. In the course of which, told them the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the bear hair. Stopped at a steakhouse tavern where, if not exactly cool, it was at least shady. Told some bikers there the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the hairs from the pill box. Discovered the rear brake banjo bolt was leaking. Needed a female torx socket I didn't have to tighten it up. Met some scarlet faced ATGATT clad yuppies at a light. None of them had that female torx either. In the course of which, told them the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the bear hair. (Believe it or not, next morning the local NAPA had the female torx socket required.) Breakfast with our hosts and fellow guests. In the course of which, told them the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the bear hair. Somewhere along there, Bionic Freckle had transmogrified into Bearswatter.
Hit that same pub steakhouse next afternoon. Greeted by a raft of "Are you the guys...?" In the course of which, told them the story. They didn't know whether to believe us. Showed them the bear hair. Left the steakhouse half pizzled. Riding back to the B&B, two miles up the road there's a deer stepping out from the brush a hundred yards in front. Takes one look, eyes widen, says to himself: "There's them sumbidges papa bear was telling us...", turned round and leapt back in the woods. Never saw a deer turn round before. Half mile farther there's a turkey. Takes one look, neck stretches out, says to self: "There's them ursacidal maniacs hit papa bear...". Turns round and windmills back in. The animals had no trouble believing the story. The moral is, when you swat the bear, keep the hair.
Now, the Speckled Bearswatter is a plump little bird of, shall we say delicate temperament, with a song which sounds like giggles. Being a girlie girl, she is always keen to squander my elusive sponduits on useless porcelain and glass fragilities. Best gift I ever gave her was an illuminated rosewood curio. I call it the Crappe Racque. Inside this Crappe Racque now dwells a small, suitably useless, senselessly fragile, known by certain terms familiar to girls but indescribable by men, exhorbitant glass container. The bear hairs are in there. You don't know whether to believe me? Drop by and we'll show you the bear hair.
