killbam.net » motorcycle

Insurance Claims

killbam — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 05:26:42 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

That soft pillow of a van.

The Michigan police officer looks friendly, perhaps a little bored patrolling the sparsely populated upper portions of idyllic Michigan. He’s not too pudgy, but looks like he mostly deals with tourists and helping people find directions.

With a pen and a piece of paper, he surveys the destruction to the bike in a tense moment of truth. There are no CB360T markings on the bike, but there is still the vin. Like a reverse used-car salesman, I try to direct his attention to the damage.

“There’s some damage here on the left side, this headlight is crashed in. Over down here the footpeg is bent. On the other side the turn signal is working, but the glass has been shattered. The headlights still work. Thank god both tires made it through, we can probably get it to a shop. In the front, the handlebars were crooked, but we bent them back enough.”

He write and writes and then asks me what happened.

“I was coming from around the corner, and had to ride around some bicyclists.” – I probably had to ride around some bicyclists. It could have been true.

“Then the van and I collided.” – I intentionally avoid saying that I hit the van and I make sure to sound like a victim of circumstance, with a tinge of I’m-sorry overlaying a restrained anger at the van driver who decided to hit me.

“Would you say you were out of the lane?” The cop fires back at me.

The lane? There aren’t any lanes here, and if there were, there would only be one and a half lanes. Still, I decide to go for the honest approach. If I’ve nothing to hide then maybe he won’t check if the CB77 registration lines up with the VIN number on the actual bike. I would gladly take a $300 ticket to avoid court.

“I guess.” I say sheepishly.

“Yea.” He says, indicting me, “Those goddamn bicyclists.”

“Oh yea.” I mumble, under my breath . We understand each other! Those goddamn bicyclists! That swam of yellow lycra wasps buzzing by on their 21 speeds! They caused the crash! They are a nuisance! There’s some now, flying by!

The cop walks through the swarm bicyclists over to talk to the driver of the van while I stand on the side of the road. Dad, Jenny, Jon and Rob busy themselves with the bike, although I’m sure they’re stealing glances at me waiting to see if I’m going to be written a ticket.

Rob’s photo of the damage.

Tthe morning was a bit cool but now the sun has come out and properly warmed up the day. I’m a little hot in my textile pants under the 1pm sun. It makes me uncomfortable to be in motorcycle gear and not moving.

When the cop comes back over, he says all of our paperwork is done with and we can be on our way. He gives me a piece of paper with a number and a url where I can look up the report. I immediately lose it.

Constraining my enthusiasm for getting away with no ticket and no vin number check, I walk over to the motorcycle and the rest of the riders, and explain the good news. Let’s get out here! HURRY!

I put on my helmet and sit on the bike, it starts up and still feels good. If we get away from here it’ll just be fine.

“Let’s go!” I shout through my helmet, at everyone else who is still gearing up.

“Wait,” The cop says, and walks up right by me. “What type of bike is that?”

I panic. The type of the bike! We took off all the badges, it says CB77 on the registration and insurance. Honda, I don’t know, CB, Vintage Honda CBR, THIS ONE, CLASSIC, CB77, CB360, 360T. If he’s a rider, he might know the difference, the CB77 that’s written on the registration doesn’t look anything like the CB360T.

Wait, is this a test? If I lie will he take me to jail? If I tell the truth will he let me off easy? Does he know?

“It’s a Honda CB77.” My dad lies buttoning up his helmet. I stare at the cop. The cop doesn’t say anything, he looks at me.

“Okay.” He says and gets in his car and leaves in the opposite direction. Everyone hops on their rides.

I look down at the bent bars, and smashed speedometer.

Softly I apologize to the CB360T, and ask it to carry me home. We ride out to finish up the Tunnel of Trees. I’m first, and I ride fast.

Previous in series

The Tunnel of Trees

killbam — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 05:28:12 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

The day held a lot of promise as we started out on the back end of our trip. I hosed the bugs off my jacket and we sprayed down the motorcycles with the hotel’s hose. It was a cold morning, but the cleansing was almost ritualistic.

If somehow we pleased the machine Gods, maybe they could get the CB77 home safely. They had protected me so far. Even the bike broke down, I was the best to ride it. I figured I would be safe. I’ve never dropped a bike or crashed. An achievement which I am proud of.

Lined up for sightseeing.

Today would be more weary travelling on the CB77, but each mile closer to home would be one less mile we’d have to come back if the bike broke down. I tried not to think of it as I resigned myself to riding the CB77 for the day. We were in good spirits, there was an amazing section of road that had been part of the plan since day 1. When researching our route, I found it mentioned on the internet in several places.

It’s called the Tunnel of Trees, and I wish I never heard of it.

We first had to cross Mackinac Bridge, which by some measures is the largest suspension bridge in America. Motorcyclists we talked to on the way mentioned that it was an annoying obstacle on our journey, as the entire bridge is grated. Grated roadways mean the bike shakes while riding, and bridges mean wind and cold. We paid the toll, and hopped on.

True to the stories, Mackinac Bridge was very cold and very windy, but half of it was paved and the pace was brisk. We arrived on the other side, not even stopping to reflect on the milestone and our small victory. It was time for the Tunnel of Trees, and then breakfast.

Always in charge of the map, and riding the CB77 in front, I memorized the route we took. I looked for a certain road, but it never came. It wasn’t of much matter to me, the lower Michigan farmland was hilly and straight, and the day warmed up quickly. Despite the CB77 being in a clunky and terrible condition, I began to appreciate the wide handle bars, the predictable and easy torque, the feeling of leading the pack.

Not too far after the bridge we found a gas station and pulled over. I stretched my legs and filled up the gas tank.

“30 miles since the bridge. We should have hit the Tunnel of Trees by now,” I mused.

I looked at the map, we had driven parallel to the tunnel of trees. Although the tunnel of trees was only 15 miles long, we’d have to ride it once up and once back down just to get to where we were.

“A tunnel of trees? Who cares?” Jon said, “That’s called a forest.”

He was sort of right. The riding that we just did was pretty nice in it’s own right, and it was unlikely it was going to get any better. I didn’t want to stomach the feeling of reversing our progress so early in the day.

“Let’s do it,” my dad commanded, “Let’s just ride it and get breakfast after the first run.”

I didn’t want to, but I agreed. Everyone else followed. We caught the entrance a couple of miles down the road and headed up.

We passed a bicyclist headed the same direction, then another one, then a pack. Then about 30 more bikers. There must have been hundreds and they were headed towards the tunnel of trees too. And then I saw it, that familiar but elusive “S” curve sign. Next 15 miles. This was the real deal.

The road narrowed into one and a half lanes, but was perfectly paved. The edges were marked in brilliant white, and the road dipped, bended, and curved like babbling brook. It was beautiful, and the day was beautiful. Just me, the bike, and about a thousand bike riders.

My relation with bike riders has always been ambivalent. On one hand, I respect their choice of transportation machinery. Bikes are mechanically simple and beautiful and the relation to motorcycles is obvious. They obsess over their bikes and upgrade their parts just like Motorcylists. Bikers also deal with a lot of the same hazards, and there’s a certain hardcoreness to choose such a rugged lifestyle.

But on the other hand, I detest bikers who only obey the rules of the road when it’s convenient to them. I also think their spandex is stupid and biker’s crusade to make helmets mandatory is bad science. Biking has been proven to be no more dangerous than walking, and it seems almost an affront on my childhood to wear a helmet on a bicycle.

These bikers didn’t bother me though, nothing bothered me. I knew the CB77 was running fine. With no weight on the back and leading the pack, I began to push. Dad, Jon, Jenny and Rob fell behind. The rules had changed when we entered the Tunnel of Trees. It was now every man for himself and his own pace, and my pace was fast.

There was something in the tunnel, a dark spot. I hit it and my back tire slid wide, my heart jumped. But I didn’t shut the throttle or mash the brakes, I recovered but I wasn’t afraid. I was connected to the bike now, it was a part of me. It was perfect. I waited behind bikers until I saw the opportunity to go. Sometimes they waved me by, sometimes they lined up, but most of the time they kept riding 3 or 4 in a line and I had to wait for a big clearing. It was no problem, everything fell into place.

“S” curves the next 5 miles. “Darn,” I though, almost at the end.

Then, a downhill off camber blind corner. I took it, but went wide. Too wide, I didn’t set up properly and the skinny tires were wrongly on my mind. There was van there, a soft blue, and it stopped, it didn’t move out of the way. Why was the van there? It looked soft. I am going to hit the van, I am going to hit this van.

I hit the van and bounced off, the bike flew. Asphalt, sky, asphalt, sky, asphalt.

Sky. Peeking through the Tunnel of Trees.

Previous in series Next in series

Heart Surgery On The Highway

killbam — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 02:22:54 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

Broken bike and broken adventure.

So much for the CB360T. I hop off the bike and the rest of the crew rides up. Rob explains to them the situation, but I’m so mad I don’t even take off my helmet, pouting like a MotoGP rider who just crashed out of the race. I shouldn’t have been pinning the throttle, especially at this critical point in the game. While they’re looking at the bike I take out the map.

We are literally at the apex of our trip, the next town is still twenty miles ahead and the last one was twenty miles ago. Even if these rural towns do have a bike mechanic, he’s not going to be open Saturday night, or Sunday, or Monday on Labor Day weekend.

Let’s put the bolt back in, my dad says.

What’s the point? I reply. If it came out once, it’s going to come out again. It’s hopeless. It’s ruined. We don’t even know what it is.

For the next few minutes, we argue about what the part is and if we can fix it.

It was leaking oil before, I saw it.

It holds together the tappets for the spark.

The bolt just fell out because the engine is hot.

Jon is right about the hot part. Even with our gloves on, the part is dangerously hot to touch. Dad gets our meager set of tools out. We didn’t bring a manual either; I figured we’d be useless in any situation that required a manual, but now I wish I had the comfort of one in my hands.

Even with one, we’re not very good mechanics and none of us could take an engine apart and put it back together it in a day’s time. When we were assembling the CB360 before we left we forgot to put on a washer that prevents the rear wheel from sliding around left and right. We’ve also broken a good amount of parts just because. Infamously, we end up with extra parts every time we take apart a motorcycle.

Still, they want to try to put it back in. The problem though, is it won’t come out.

We’re just fucking around now.â€ I say as I go sit on a bench. At least we stopped at a motel, we got a little lucky there. Still, we’re going to need to ask these people if we can keep the bike here for a week or two. We’ll need to re-configure the bikes for four people and their gear. We”ll probably end up leaving some bags behind too. When will we ever be able to make a trip to pick it all up?

They’re struggling with the bolt. I watch funny bugs buzz around. More and more are coming out as it gets later and later in the evening. I hate bugs and it’s good I won’t have to clean anymore off my helmet tonight, a process which I do by hand as to not scratch my visor. But to distract myself from my distraction I think about how to configure the bikes, who is going to ride what, what we’re going to leave behind.

Eventually, they get the bolt out and as we look into the engine we see that the thing the bolt goes into has moved slightly off the hole.

I know, I’ll start the bike until it rotates! Rob says.

And since none of us have a better idea than starting an engine that we can stick our fingers into, he does it. Every time the bike tries to start I cringe a bit, but after about a dozen tries, the holes line up.

The bolt is in surprisingly good condition for something that was plunging the interior of the engine and all of the threads on it are intact. It’s also covered oil which is dotted with metal shards. Not something you ever want to see in your oil.

Pretty good condition.

I peer into the engine. The threads inside the engine are half gone, ground completely smooth. The bolt I’m holding in my hand is hardened, while the engine is made of aluminum. When I put the bolt in, it just spins.

Frustrated again I let Dad and Jon take a look at it. They decide to put the bolt in by hammering it and turning it at the same time, using the resistance of the few threads that are already there. It’s a delicate operation, with broken parts, and the tools we have are:

a small wrench, and

a big wrench.

Jon turns the small wrench, careful not to burn himself on the still searing hot engine, while Dad smacks the top of the bolt with the big wrench. It turns, it turns a bit more, and then it stops turning.

I start the bike up.

On the side of the rural Michigan road there is only the sound of the CB360T running. None of us celebrate. None of us move. We all contemplate in different directions, immersing ourselves in the CB360T’s sound, listening for what the engine has to tell us.

I’m designated the test driver now because the bike broke on my watch. Still, nobody is blaming me for ruining the trip, and I’m not really either. Had it really been my fault I would have felt like riding off a cliff on one of the remaining bikes.

Nonetheless I’m a little ashamed at my behavior but impressed we got it to start up and it’s beginning to brighten up my mood. At least I can make up for whatever part of it was my fault, and my sulking, by adopting the CB360T as my ride now.

We might be headed further away from home, we might be getting closer. At this point there’s only one option, and that’s forward. If we’re lucky, we can make it to the next town and then decide what to do.

Somewhere across that lake is home.

Previous in series Next in series

The trip I didn’t want to start

killbam — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 06:03:18 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

A Lap of Lake Michigan

Rob’s M class license is less than a week old. He started riding for real this summer, but we’re about to ride more in 3 days than he has in 3 months. None of us though, except for me, have ever put in the as much mileage in one trip as will be required to go around Lake Michigan.

To complicate things, Rob will also be riding a bike from 1976 which was fired up for the first time in 20 years a day ago. We’re not sure where the bike came from except for the fact that it didn’t have any papers and wasn’t taken care of at all.

And no papers means we couldn’t get the CB360T registered. It’s insured, but because we picked it up in a warehouse from a Harley dealer for $200 Illinois is making us wait two months before anything happens.

“WHERE IS THE CB77 REGISTRATION AND INSURANCE???” My dad text messages me on Friday. And I already know what he’s thinking. We’re not taking my CB77, but we’re going to leave the badges off the CB360T and pretend it’s a different, older bike.

“It’s insured, but not registered.” Dad tells me. “A cop won’t know the difference, and nobody will check the VINs if we get pulled over.” He’s right.

“We can’t get pulled over, this thing barley does 60” I respond. I’m confident, but I know cops have a way of messing with you. I don’t feel like I’d be able to lie to an officer and a quick glance at the VIN will probably end our trip and get the bike impounded.

This is one of the many thoughts running through my mind as I get out of work early on Friday. I’ve got a lot of work to do, passed deadlines, and grad school starting. I had to move my stuff out of cube on Friday into boxes because they’re moving things around to add more people. My biggest worry though is the weather and the route.

There is predicted rain for Monday night at the end of our trip. Traction probably won’t be a problem, but I know I’m the only person with full rain gear. There’s a chance of hypothermia even in summer temperatures if you’re wet, but more likely it will just make everyone absolutely miserable. It’s like taking a freezing shower for hours on end.

For about a month, I delayed planning the route. I honestly don’t want to go on the trip. Since moving back from California, I feel like the adventure is dead. Google Maps is also not good at planning long trips that you decide on. It keeps crashing on me and I can’t seem to print out directions. I have nothing written down for our route around Lake Michigan.

He whole of living in the Midwest is problem if you’re an avid motorcyclist. The roads are straight, flat, square, and the locals aren’t friendly to motorcyclists. There is no lane splitting, so the metal explosion factory between your legs just serves to cook you further in your already inappropriately heavy and hot gear.

I get home hoping that with a little luck, we’ll be off in about 30 minutes. Better to get it over with. We can make it to Green Bay by night and get the boring stuff out of the way but when I get there Dad is in the garage, in shorts and a t-shirt working on the 360T. It’s still not assembled.

Jon and Rob aren’t anywhere to be seen.

“They’re probably out buying airsoft guns,” he says in a moody tone, which is never good. I start to help him assemble the 360T hoping that by working hard I can calm my dad’s mood. The bike ran for the first times last night after rush shipping a bunch of used parts off eBay which themselves were of objectionable quality. New tires today means re-assembling a lot of the bike.

About an hour later Jon and Rob show up, surprisingly packed and ready to go as we fire up the 360T again. Jon and Rob bought some rain gear, but my dad doesn’t have waterproof anything. Jenny doesn’t have anything waterproof either, they say they’ll just tough it out but I know they’re hoping for no rain.

Rob packs his bike

I’m a little mad not only because nobody listened to my warning about the rain, but also because we’re about an hour behind my made up schedule. Dad then puts the Hayabusa up on the bike lift for some reason. He says we need to change the clutch fluid all of the sudden. It delays us another 30 minutes as we take off the plastic side fairings, and I keep glancing at the daylight going down.

The Busa on the stand, not ready to go

The neighbors come out to wish us well and make jokes as we’re about to leave. The first stop is gas. New plan: make Green Bay sometime tonight.

It’s a proper going away party!

We hop on the highway and head towards Wisconsin with Dad on the CB360T (we’re afraid it’s going to break down), Rob next on the VFR (the least powerful of the remaining bikes), me, and Jon with Jenny on the back of the Hayabusa (temporary).

Obama is doing work on the roads so we’re keeping a tight formation. People like to serve in-between bikes, and there’s no shoulder so we need to protect our lane position. Around the O’hare oasis, something wiggles on the back of the 360T in the lead and Rob’s backpack falls off.

Rob looks back and slows down next to me. He points backwards. I shake my head and point forwards. There’s no stopping here. Traffic is moderate because of vacationers, there are trucks, and there’s no shoulder at all.

The first chance we get is the O’hare oasis, where we pull over. Rob is pissed. He wanted to wear the bag, but we told him to tie it down even though wearing a bag is okay for short periods. Eventually even the lightest weight will hurt your back.

Two of our bikes have saddle bags on them, and one of them has a bag that rides on the tail. Everything else is just backpacks and knapsacks. They’re awkwardly shaped and don’t sit well on the backs of motorcycles and they’re not waterproof but still… I’ve never lost a bag and neither has anybody else I know, and we’ve tied a lot of stupid things to the backs of motorcycles.

Rob wants to go back to get the bag.

“We’re at the O’hare oasis. The next turn off is about 15 minutes north, and the last one is 15 minutes south, we’d lose an hour just getting back here” Jon says.

“Besides, the bag is probably destroyed and even if it weren’t we couldn’t stop and pick it up.”

We all argue for about 5 minutes on what to do. Dad and Rob want to go back and get it. Jon thinks it’s too dangerous and the bag is already done with. I think we need to get to Green Bay tonight and we can’t afford an hour. We settle on calling the police to have someone pick it up. Jon makes the call, they say they’ll look out for it.

Some of Rob’s clothes are gone, including some of his rain gear and a warm weather clothes and Jon is being unsympathetic to Rob’s loss, although Rob’s main complaint is he lost a limited edition hoodie. We can feel it’s already getting cold. Rob hops on the 360T because we think it might cheer him up to ride “his” bike and we ride on.

About 5 minutes later Jon zooms in front of us and signals for us to pull over to the side of the road for an emergency. I make a mirror check, the CB 360T is gone.

Rob simply slowed down and eventually stopped, a little ways back, on an overpass, in the construction zone, where there are no shoulders and where he’s sitting right in the middle of the lane.

We call him, but he doesn’t pick up. Jon hops off his bike and starts to run after him soon disappearing.

Jon calls, they can’t get the bike started or off to the side of the road which means that it’s in the middle of traffic and cars don’t bother to slow down as they pass them. Rob and Jon are taking turns trying to kick start the bike and they begin to push it to where we are.

I start trying to call the hotel we’re staying at to cancel my reservations without anybody asking me to do so. Originally, I wanted to play the whole thing by ear, but everyone told me yesterday to book a hotel room. They’re afraid Green Bay will be packed with bastards like us going on vacation to Illinois’ private resort of Wisconsin. I paid for the hotel rooms through Priceline, except when I call them their automatic system doesn’t recognize my telephone number. After messing with my phone for 15 minutes to get the reservation number, they say they don’t recognize that either and it won’t let me talk to a person.

I call the hotel instead and ask to cancel my reservations. The girl on the other end sounds cute and cheerful.

“Sorry, can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“You booked it through Travelocity didn’tcha?”

“Priceline actually”

“Well, we can’t cancel anything online. You’ll have to call them.”

“I already tried, they aren’t recognizing my telephone number.”

“It’s okay, they probably won’t let you cancel anyway. Hee hee. That’s why you should always just call the hotel yourself!”

My mood was getting worse. I feel sorry for Rob. This whole trip was a huge disaster.

Next in series