The Crowning Incentive...

The ride was nearly over with a scant five miles to go. It was 94º in the air above the pavement but the ground itself was a degree or two below the flash point and the odd droplet of sweat that found its way down to my gas tank danced like a bead of hot oil on gritty diner grill. Vintage BMW K-75s tend to run warm under the best of circumstances, with their gas tanks taking on the characteristics of miniature hot water heaters. This is a delight in the late fall but a total bitch in stagnant summer heat. On the day that these events occurred, riding “Fireballs” was very close to understatement.

If the heat was hard on me, it was worse for some of the cagers around me, even if they appeared to have air conditioning. For example, there was a nice lady in a minivan next to me, who for the sake of this column, I’ll call “Amelia Stupidbitch.” The windshield on her vehicle focused the sun on her forehead — rather like a magnifying glass strategically held over an ant — and boiled her brains. She was on the telephone, probably calling a neurologist, as her minivan swerved ever so gently from side to side. I was in the process of passing her when she came far left as if she wanted a kiss.

Now I’ll kiss most women, and be grateful for the opportunity, but I like to choose my subjects as well the circumstances. (I almost wrote the word “location” instead of “circumstances,” though one most always has to start on the lips, especially with strangers.) We live in an age of political correctness (a philosophy evident in my writing) and it pays to get clarification of intent, especially in dealing with forward women. I sought clarification by triggering the FIAMM sport screamer, a little horn which shrieks like a mother-in-law being staked into a coffin.

As it turns out, that was the right thing to do.

Amelia jumped three feet in her seat and stared at me with her mouth wide open. She was about 35-years-old, and blond with deep red Anjolina Jolie lips times three. With the right lighting (subdued), music (Blue Oyster Cult), and rum (1.5 gallons) this could have been a audition. It was apparent this response came too easily for her. (Opening her mouth is what Amelia uses as a substitute for thought.) Plus in this pose, she looked like a large mouth bass in search of a hook. It was also clear that Amelia did not expect to see a motorcycle two inches beyond her left mirror. I know she was surprised because I could hear her say as much into the phone.

“Fireballs” was clocking a modest 68mph at the time, and I opened the throttle wide. There was a second before the wind-up, and then the pitch. My line drive put a dozen cars between her and the K75. Amelia was left to her perpetual slalom in my wake.

I had been making this short summer morning run with a few of the boys, notably “Leather” Dick Bregstein and Bobby “Le Dauphin” Le Boutlier, both on imposing traditional BMW “R” bikes. They had peeled off as we hit their respective exits and I was alone with 20,000 other drivers on US-202. It was then I noticed that every second vehicle around me was a minivan. Nine times out of ten, vehicles that cut in front of me are minivans. There has to be some explanation. I have documented that virtually every minivan operator has that cross-eyed, over-hanging brow look common to people of low intellect. Now I want to know: does this affliction happen naturally as a side-effect of driving a minivan; or do dealerships just sell these cars to dopey neanderthals; or do you get a free lobotomy with every minivan purchase?

This raises the issue that if the number of stupid, vapid, and inconsiderate drivers is on the rise, should I not be more visible with regard to my riding gear?

Despite the fact a healthy percentage of BMW jockeys order their ballistic riding gear in “high-viz colors,” I still cannot reconcile myself to wearing a jacket that appears to glow like electrified piss. Not on a highly-dignified, cardinal-red motorcycle like mine. That I ride a BMW motorcycle at all already marks me as an elitist douche in the eyes of many riders consigned to lesser sophisticated, more cumbersome, louder, and slower marques. I’ll not go out of my to support their argument by wearing a neon circus sign. So my gear — mesh jacket, perforated glove, and helmet — is the traditional biker black. On a hot, clear summer day, this gear converts sunlight into sweat and steam. The mesh vents this vapor, which instantly condenses and causes lowland flooding. But the sweat shooting out my ears is contained in my helmet, much the same way that BP’s cap is finally holding the oil in that well under the Gulf of Mexico.

There are some folks who regard their riding gear as part of their persona. To me, my riding jacket is my insurance to avoid 50 square yards of plastic surgery should I pull an abrupt flying dismount. It is like a bullet-proof sack. I have mentioned the gloves before. They are the coolest (temperature-wise) I could find, with a zillion perforations, though they offer minimal protection. But I feel differently about my helmet.

If a motorcycle is considered to be the signature of a rider’s character, than his (or her) helmet is that signature’s flourish. (If you were born after 1954 or are a product of the current US education system, you are probably unaware that early 18th and 19th century signatures were often accompanied by a little embellishment, known as a “flourish.” One of the best examples of this can be found under the signature of John Hancock, on the Declaration of Independence.)

Above — John Hancock, a Founding Father of the United States, knew how to sign a document with style. Portrait from the internet.

My Nolan N-102e helmet is the best motorcycle riding headgear I have ever worn. It is my flourish. I would no more ride out of this driveway without my Nolan helmet than I would ride balls-ass naked. Prior to 2006, I have always worn traditional, open-faced motorcycle helmets, with cheap, shitty plastic face shields that snapped onto the front, or equally shitty goggles. Full-face helmets struck me as claustrophobic, sweat traps that impeded your peripheral vision. And in truth, I wore the cheapest helmet I could find, solely to satisfy local law — despite having had three accidents which entailed hitting the ground. (As stupid kid who routinely kept his head in his ass, I longed to ride helmet-free, on a Kawasaki 900, with the wind blowing through my long hair, and through the halter top of the tanned babe behind me.)

Above — John Hancock's signature on the Declaration of Independence, large enough so "Fat George" could read it without his glasses. Signature from the internet.

Then came the day I took the Harley-Davidson “Riders Edge” Course. The temperature peaked at 38º, and the pouring rain was an added bonus. Cold rainwater was blowing in around my goggles and aggravating the shit out of me. I walked into the dealer’s showroom and bought a Harley-badged flip-face helmet. The fit was a little off, but I was amazed at the comfort and the quiet of the helmet. It did tend to fog up, but otherwise did nothing to limit my vision or what I could hear. I wore that helmet a month, discovering it was for a round, Charlie Brown-type head and that it did nothing to help me with the sun in my eyes. (I cannot wear sunglasses when I ride, as my eyes take too long to adjust to a shady stretch, or to tunnels.)

The Nolan N-102e was the first brand I tried (and I tried a dozen of them) that fit my lupine shaped-head. The internal padding, the collar in the back, and the gasket seal around the clear, optically correct face shield were all pluses, as was the solid steel to steel locking mechanism, that requires two fingers to hit opposing tabs to open the chin bar. (This eliminates accidently opening the helmet by randomly touching the chin bar.) The foam liner was also alleged to be easy to remove for cleaning. The helmet comes with a trap door to easily install the Nolan brand communications package as well. One of the best aspects of this lid was an external, deep green-tinted sun visor, which flipped down in an instant, to shield your eyes from glare of from the sun, and then popped up just as quickly. It was as if this helmet had been hand-made for me.

Now there are those who do not think this is a beautiful helmet because of the external visor. And there are others who think the external visor makes the helmet noisy. Then again, there are those who fail to see the beauty of a BMW K75. In this rare instance, I did not let the cool element overwhelm practicality. And so began my love affair with Nolan helmets.

On this particular day, I pulled into the driveway and parked the bike. I pulled an ice cold sugar-free Snapple lemonade out of the garage ‘fridge, took a huge gulp, and topped off the void in the bottle with two or more ounces of nice fresh gin. I headed out to the patio to light up a vitamin C-loaded cigar and reflect on the wonders of life. I piled my mesh jacket on an empty chair, and nestled my treasured Nolan helmet securely in the jacket, with the opening facing upward. I was barely ensconced in reverie when Leslie/Stiffie (my red hot squeeze) summoned me inside to the phone. (Brian Curry, a world famous K-75 guru, was on the line and wanted my advice about switching out a clutch plate.) I was in the midst of telling him how to go about this, when I heard Leslie screaming her heart out in horror.

The yard was filled with dead birds.

At least 50 cardinals, gold finches, blue jays, silver-throated sparrows, a flock of Canada geese and a neighbor’s prize-winning emu were dead on the ground. Not only that, but the leaves on our beautiful shade maple were turning brown, curling, and falling off the tree. It was then we noticed a mysterious green vapor emanating from the foam liner of my Nolan helmet.

“The sweat stink from your helmet is killing all forms of life,” said Stiffie/Leslie in a muffled tone, as she was now wearing a WWII gas mask. “Do something before the yard is declared a superfund site. And don’t even think about bringing that foul-smelling helmet back into the house.”

The aroma arising from my helmet, now in its 3rd season of use, was as deadly as mustard gas. But like the most powerful fart ever released at a chili festival, it is common man-lore that the source of the vapor is immune to its effects. I picked up the helmet and tried to look at it objectively (without the tint of affection). The external green visor was covered with a fresh layer of dead bugs... But underneath that, it bore the scratches and scars of 30,000 miles. The clear plastic face shield was in worse shape, and the helmet’s fine finish was well-marred in a dozen places where stones and huge dead bugs had left their marks. (Every flying insect, from the tiny Amish horse-shit midge to the huge, dreaded Fried Rice Beetle — named for the stringy smear of guts they leave behind — leaves a dot of digestive acid where it expired. This can play hell with the exquisite finish of a helmet, or a fairing for that matter.)

The experts (who are probably hired by helmet companies) recommend retiring a helmet after 4 or 5 seasons, as the effects of ultraviolet light can weaken the molecular structure of the plastic. (It’s odd that this takes 50,000 years to accomplish with discarded plastic soft-drink bottles in garbage dumps.) Naturally, you are well advised to replace any helmet that has been through a crash or even dropped hard. The stink coming off my helmet was so bad, my first thought was to go online to see what Nolan was offering, and to determine how much washing Leslie/Stiffie would have to take in to buy me a new one.

Above — the red and black N-103 n-com I initially fell in love with. Then I discovered the red didn't match the red of my bike. Fate never misses a chance to spit in my eye. Helmet picture from the internet.

The N-102e is still available, but there is a much snappier N-103 n-com with better venting and an internal sunscreen. My computer opened to one that was red and black, and I got an instant, raging hard-on. My bike is red and black, and for once, I thought it would be cool to have a helmet that perfectly matched the paint on my bike. I damn near ordered this helmet with money that was reserved for my first former mother-in-law’s burial plot. (She is still alive and shows no signs of gasping, but I thought I would surprise her with a nice hole in the ground and let her take a two-week test drive.) Then I did the smart thing and carried my laptop into the garage. My bike is a deeper red than that of the helmet, and the match is not quite perfect.

I started to cry.

I decided that a new Nolan helmet, in simple flat graphite, would be my incentive gear... That I would buy one, and keep it in the box until I broke 300 pounds. (I am in a desperate lifestyle change to lose weight.) I have 46 and a half pounds before I hit the 300 pound mark. That’s when I got the great idea. Nolan does not appear to have a custom painting option. But I thought I would don sackcloth and ashes, and kneel in front of their facility, wherever the hell it is, and beg them to sell me a blank unassembled helmet shell that could be painted with my BMW bike’s official paint. (BMW touch-up paint for my bike is available in a one ounce container for about $30. To buy enough paint to do a helmet should cost about $1800. I would ask an air brush artist to put some unique graphics on the painted shell, for another $300.) Then I was thinking I could send the blank back and have the chin-bar attached to it. This is solid black and will look utterly balls-ass. I figure the cost of the helmet, plus the paint, plus the graphics will come in around $3,450.00.

It will be so fucking worth it.

On the day that I officially weigh 299 pounds, I will stand on a huge scale (in the foyer of Michael’s Diner on Rt. 422), and be crowned by a hottie, wearing a shamelessly tight Twisted Roads Tee Shirt. Camera flashes will fire as the sacred Nolan is placed upon my head. (It will probably be stolen 20 minutes later.)

In the meantime, I ordered a new face shield, a new tinted visor, and a anti-fog shield for my existing Nolan-102e. A friend of mine is a member of the local bomb squad, and he came over with one of those little robots designed to handle strange packages. It removed the liner from my helmet and placed it in the washer. The water turned to foam the instant it came into contact with the fouled material. Set to “handwash,” 80 percent of the stench was gone two hours later. I do not believe that these helmet liners are intended to go through the dryer, but this one was getting a bit stretched out. So I ran it through “damp dry” and it tightened up nicely.

Does the gentle reader think that removal of 80 percent of the stench would pass muster around here? Not a shot. I was awakened by what sounded like a dog fight in the kitchen yesterday. “What the hell is going on,” I asked Leslie/Stiffie, in the romantic way we we address each other in the morning.

“The dogs are attempting to roll in your Nolan helmet,” she replied.

The liner is going through a second pass in the washer today. I wonder why the helmet liners are not as readily available as replacement gear as are the face shields. Somebody should put a bug in Nolan’s ear. In fact, I think the folks at Nolan could make a good buck selling complete revitalization kits each spring. These would include the face shield, the anti-fog insert, the tinted visor, and the liner insert. I’d have paid $130 to get all this as one kit. You don’t realize how the scratches and the scuffs, tiny as they may be, pile up on a face shield. But I tried the helmet on with all the new stuff and it was like getting a new pair of eyes. The new face shield, the visor, and the anti-fog shield ran me around $90 at Genuine Accessories. It was money well spent.

Two words on the Nolan anti-fog shield... It works. I breathe through a facial blow-hole, at a rate that rivals a squirrel in coitus, and the shield on a previous “Brand X” flip-face helmet would have the clarity of a bowl of milk in 20 seconds. Not so with the Nolan. I have only experienced fogging about the size of a thumbnail, directly under my nose, under the most taxing circumstances. Cracking the shield a half-notch clears it instantly. There is never any fog to speak of on the Nolan anti-fog shield.

Author’s note:
I have been advised to add a little vinegar (in the bleach port) to the wash cycle the next time I launder this helmet liner. I’m curious to see how this pans out.

I refuse to debate whether it is better to wear a helmet or to ride free in the breeze. I would never tell an established rider that he or she would be smarter to wear a helmet. (For one thing, you cannot tell an established rider anything. It is easier to change someone’s sexual orientation than it is to influence an opinion when it comes to helmets.) But I would tell any newcomers to the riding lifestyle to try this simple experiment. From a car moving at 45 miles per hour, drop a watermelon onto the road. Now repeat the experiment, using your head. (Please don’t really drop your head onto the road from a moving car! My legal department tells me that a certain percentage of Twisted Roads readers are fully capable of dropping their heads on the road. If you can function without your head, then I suggest you put it up your ass for safekeeping and move to Washington, D.C. You have a career in Congress.) To those of my readers who like to ride helmet-free, I say, “Ride on, and ride like hell.” Give me a Nolan flip-face helmet every time.

I received no funding nor promotional consideration from Nolan regarding this column. Not because I am above it, but because no one offered. No amount of money would induce me to endorse a product that I myself wouldn’t and didn’t use. For a person with my head size and requirements, I ranked the “Nolan” helmet as a great helmet. I’d feel confident comparing this helmet against any other brand that fit.

Addendum:

And now the moment you have all been waiting for... Contest Winners!

The winner of the EZ Tire Pressure Gauge is:
STACY

The winner of the Progressive Suspension & Tire Plugging Kit is:
Tom McLarney

Each winner has 15 minutes to contact me at JPRiepe@aol.com, or else I’m selling their prize to piss away the cash on cheap whiskey and tough whores. (Just kidding... The whores are rather sweet.)

The new Twisted Roads monthly contest for September officially starts today. The prize for leaving a comment will be an EZ Tire Pressure Gauge.

The Grand Monthly Prize will be awarded to the most interesting letter written to “Twisted Roads, Dispatches From The Front Department." For examples of sample letters, please click here. The Grand Monthly Prize for September will be a genuine Cycle Pump compressor. Two second prizes will also be awarded. They are copies of my self-improvement book, "Politicaly Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists." Two third prizes will be coveted "Twisted Roads" tee shirts.

To enter, simply write a "Dispatch," and send it to jpriepe@aol.com. Mark it "Dispatches From The Front" in the subject line. If you are sending a picture (preferably topless) please indicate that you have the sole rights to the picture and are giving me the right to publish it.

• Winners for both contests will be announced on the “Twisted Roads Blog,” on Monday, Seotember 20, 2010.
• Winners will be chosen at random.
• Relatives and former wives of the editorial staff of Twisted Roads are not eligible for prizes.
• No substitutions
• Void where prohibited
• Prizes are awarded new as they are shipped in their original packaging from the manufacturer. Twisted Roads is not responsible for any defects in awarded prizes, nor for any incidents, accidents, injuries, damages or death perceived to be caused by defective prizes. Riding a motorcycle is a dangerous activity with special risks. We all ride at our own pleasure and peril.
• Unclaimed prizes will be held a year. It is up to all contestants to read the Twisted Roads Blog dated August 16th, 2010 to see if they are winners.
• Any additional taxes or fees due on prizes are the responsibility of the winners. Twisted Roads is happy to pay for shipping and handling.
• Topless contestants who send pictures of themselves usually do a lot better at winning prizes. My email address is posted on my blog. (I dare you.)

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2010
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)