Tag: motorcycle

Love in an Elevator

I assure you this story has a point.

I once nearly lost a hand in an elevator door. True story. A group of coworkers and I were staying in an elegant older hotel in San Antonio. We’d just checked in and were waiting for a group to exit the elevator so we could enter. As the last person left the lift, the doors began to close, I waited a beat before sticking my right hand out to keep them open, then Bang! The doors snapped shut, just missing my outstretched fingers.

For the rest of my stay I took the stairs. I never try to catch and hold the elevator doors anywhere, having learned my lesson. Half an inch and two seconds were all that prevented my nickname from being Lefty instead of Nana.

These were not the offending doors, I just liked them.

Once on a solo motorcycle trip from my home in Mahomet, Illinois, to my son’s home in Dallas, Texas, I stopped for the night in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I’d been on the road all day under the hot summer sun and was ready for a shower.

I checked into the hotel and unloaded the gear from my saddlebags. I’d packed light and was able to carry everything into the hotel in one trip. I entered the empty elevator and fully relaxed for the first time that day. This was my first major solo ride, and I’d been on high alert for many miles.

As soon as I relaxed, a poof of gas was forcefully passed from my backside. Yes, I cut the cheese. It was totally unintentional, but that didn’t keep it from smelling to high heaven.

“Thank goodness,” I thought. “I’m going up and the elevator is empty.”

Except that a well put together woman stopped the elevator on the second floor and rode up with me to the third. I was torn between apologizing for the smell and trying to mime blaming it on the previous occupants. Instead I just suffered in silence until the doors opened and I could escape. I think I heard her gasp for air as she went in the opposite direction. Probably scarred her for life.

The elephant did it!

Now, Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler and Joe Perry wrote the song “Love in an Elevator.” I’m thinking of writing one called “Lefty Farts in an Elevator.“ It should be a hit, don’t you think?

Peace and love, people!

Studly and Siri

Last night I was on my third glass of wine when Studly Doright began planning his motorcycle trip from Doright Manor to his mom’s house in Hereford, Texas. I kept hearing him mumble into his phone.

“Siri, how far is it from Bainbridge, Georgia, to Dothan, Alabama? No, not Dowland, Dothan.

“How far from Dothan to Montgomery, Alabama?”

Some unintelligible mumbling.

This went on for at least twenty minutes. One town after another, one misunderstanding after another. Twice I thought he was talking to me. A couple of times I questioned his judgement.

“Little Rock, Arkansas? That’s way out of your way!” I said.

“Shhhh!” he shushed. “Siri and I have a thing going on.”

She helped him plot his route from Havana, Florida, to Bainbridge, Georgia, to Dothan, Alabama, to Montgomery, Alabama to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, to Columbus, Mississippi, to Indianola, Mississippi, to Hot Springs, Arkansas, to McAlester, Oklahoma, to Wellington, Texas, to his final destination of Hereford, Texas.

Whew! My route is much easier: Drive to the Tallahassee airport, board a flight to Dallas, Texas, at 7:45, change planes and arrive in Amarillo by 1:44. Siri never got involved.

He’s taking the road less traveled; I’m taking the friendly skies. Hopefully our paths will converge in the Texas panhandle. If not, Siri’s got some ‘splainin’ to do.

Peace, people!

Precocious

On Saturday I drove into Tallahassee in order to stay out of Studly Doright’s hair. Since he can’t play golf right now due to a recent back surgery, he’s embarked on a series of projects that I’m not adept at taking part in, such as cleaning the carburetor and spray painting the frame of a PW 80 Yamaha he’s fixing up for our grandkids.

I tend to be something of a bull in a china closet when working in the shop. Parts break, stuff gets lost, paint goes everywhere except where it should. Studly is patient, but after so many goof ups he shoos me into a corner.

My escape from Doright Manor took me to Target where I wandered the aisles picking up items on a shopping list. I made goofy faces at little kids and chatted with their moms, sniffed scented candles and hefted different styles of bookends.

I created backstories for people I encountered–the woman dressed in all black was in the federal witness protection program, the elderly gentleman wearing old-style khakis and a button down shirt had made millions in the stock market only to lose it all in the last recession. His gold digging trophy wife had left him for a still wealthy man, only to return because the sex was so damned good.

My imaginings were disrupted by a crash followed immediately by a harried father of three sternly reprimanding the oldest of his children.

“Isabelle, what did you do?”

Isabelle, who appeared to be six, or thereabouts, said, “The boogie boards just fell over.”

“Did you have anything to do with the boogie boards falling over?”

“Maybe, Daddy, but they were stacked so deceptively.”

The dad and I made eye contact. Neither of us laughed; although, it was a near thing. He’s going to have his hands full with Isabelle.

I wandered a bit more before returning to Doright Manor. Thanks to Isabelle I have a new excuse for my klutziness.

Peace, people.

Wakulla Springs Ride

Yesterday while poor Studly Doright had to toil away at the office I rode my CanAm Spyder RT out to Edward Ball Wakulla Springs State Park. From our home outside of Tallahassee it’s only about 42 miles to the park, and best of all, most of the ride was on shaded back roads with very light traffic.

Once at Wakulla Springs I walked around the park, had a light lunch, and enjoyed the scenic boat ride before starting home. I had intended to take photos for the blog, but using my cell phone as a gps ran my battery awfully low, so I only snapped a few pics:

A beautiful blue heron

A not-so-beautiful, but impressive gator

A tree framed by the window of the boat

Next time I’ll take along a charger for my phone. There were so many more shots that had to be foregone.

This was my second adventure on my Spyder, and I’m really beginning to enjoy the ride. I’m much more visible to drivers on this machine, and that’s always a good thing. The Spyder has plenty of power, and I feel comfortable in the seat. The only thing I haven’t tested yet is its performance on the interstate. Soon.

This is me pre-ride on the Spyder, before I put on all my gear:

My brother commented that I look tiny on the bike. Yay! For once something makes my butt look small.

Peace, people.

Minimalist Challenge, Lizard in the Mix Day 21

Today’s haul came mostly from my closet. Included are two pair of seldom worn shoes, along with my defective motorcycle boots (I lost the sole from the left boot on Saturday https://nananoyz5forme.com/2018/02/18/anyone-know-a-good-blacksmith/), a T-shirt, and a couple of bags, a book on tape, several cosmetic items, and three heart shaped paper doilies. And then there’s the lizard.

Here’s a closeup:

He’s dead. Apparently one of the cats brought him in and left him as a precious gift for me. I damned near stepped on him while carrying fresh sheets from the dryer to the bedroom. Nothing good would have come from that.

So Mr. Lizard, along with the piece of toilet paper I used to pick him up are being tossed today. Never a dull moment at Doright Manor.

Peace, people.

Anyone Know a Good Blacksmith?

When I took my new-to-me CanAm Spyder out for a test run yesterday I never expected I’d throw a shoe. Isn’t that an event reserved for horses?

And yet as I pulled into a parking lot in Mariana, Florida, in search of a place to have lunch I felt an odd sensation on the bottom of my left foot. The entire sole of my boot had detached and slipped off onto the asphalt.

Fortunately there’s a layer of leather between my foot and the sole; otherwise, I’d have been in a barefoot pickle! I guess I could’ve bought a pair of tennis shoes or cheap work boots at the local Beall’s department store, but I’d have had to ride the mile or so back in that direction and then gone limping inside to shop. Maybe it’s time for new boots. Or a good glue–has anyone ever tried that on motorcycle boots?

I put about 150 miles on the bike today. The ride is a bit different from that of a two-wheel motorcycle. One doesn’t counter steer on the Spyder, and there’s no front brake handle. I know eventually I’ll stop reaching for the handle and feeling ridiculous when I grasp nothing but air, but it may take awhile.

The bike “walks” a bit from side as opposed to a two-wheeler, and it catches wind in ways I’m not accustomed to, but it never feels unstable. Plus, not having to put my feet down upon stopping is priceless.

Additionally, one doesn’t lean into turns on the three-wheel Spyder. I was never a knee dragger, but I caught myself in leaning mode a couple of times today, and the bike is having none of that nonsense. I kept expecting it to rap my knuckles and admonish me to “sit up straight, for pity’s sake.”

I am in love with the reverse gear, the cruise control, and the radio. My windshield is adjustable and the bike has heated handgrips, as well! Those are all accoutrements I’ve never had on a bike before.

After my ride my shoulders and thighs were pretty tight and sore. Those are sure signs I need to relax a bit more. And for those of you who don’t ride motorcycles, 150 miles on a bike can feel like 350 if you’re tense.

Experienced Spyder owners tell me it’ll take about 500 miles to really appreciate everything the bike can do, so I’m off to a great start. If only I had boots, I’d ride again today.

Peace, people.

Stretching Like an Athlete Follow Up

Several weeks ago I posted about Stretching Your Life, a business owned and operated by kinesiologists in Tallahassee. As a 61-year-old I’d become dissatisfied with feeling like a 91-year-old, while my mind kept insisting I’m only 40-something. The disconnect was driving me nuts. I’d even sold my motorcycle because it was exceedingly painful to put my leg over the seat.

One of Studly Doright’s golf buddies referred me to Stretching for Life and I’ve had two sessions of intense one-to-one stretching along with three group stretching sessions. In addition, Jen, the kinesiologist with whom I work most closely, thought I’d benefit from A.R.P. therapy at a chiropractic office in town.

A.R.P. therapy (which I’ve also heard referred to as A.R.T. and A.R.C.) is akin to STIM therapy, in that small padded electrodes are attached to the body and emit a series of electrical impulses that cause the muscles to contract and relax. But A.R.P. is much more intense, the padded electrodes are larger, and the patient is physically active during the therapy.

I almost cried at my first visit, not because it was painful, but because I could feel the muscles in my thighs and hips letting go of their normal clinched and pinched state. I could lift my knee and simulate throwing my leg over a motorcycle seat–something I haven’t been able to do in over a year.

Now after three A.R.P. therapy sessions I’m moving much better, and the chiropractor is ready to turn me back over to Jen. The secret is to keep stretching and try to gain even more flexibility in the process. Who knows, maybe my body and mind can meet somewhere in the middle!

Peace, people!

https://youtu.be/27cunjLzYdA

Whistle Stop Cafe

Studly Doright bought a new old motorcycle as a gift to himself for his upcoming birthday necessitating a quick trip to Atlanta, Georgia, on Friday evening. About 50 miles outside of Atlanta I saw a billboard for the Whistle Stop Cafe, made famous in Fannie Flagg’s novel, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe and the film, Fried Green Tomatoes. 


I’ve read the book more than once, and I’ve seen the movie enough times to be able to quote entire lines of dialogue from memory, so being something of a kid I began an earnest campaign for us to make a side trip to the cafe on our return to Doright Manor on Saturday.

“Please, oh please, oh please can we visit? I want to yell ‘Towanda!’ at the top of my lungs and eat fried green tomatoes!”

Studly, being the patient man he is grumbled something like, “Hmmmph.”

I took that to mean, “Certainly, sweetheart, whatever makes you happy!”

Of course he was driving in Atlanta traffic at the time, so my interpretation might’ve been off by a word or two.

We spent the night in Atlanta, picked up the motorcycle, which happily met Studly’s expectations, at 10 a.m., and then plugged the address for the Whistle Stop Cafe in Juliette, GA, into the GPS. 

Juliette is about 55 miles south and slightly east of Atlanta, nestled in the gently rolling farmland and forests of southeastern  Georgia. Turning into its main street felt like stepping back in time.


Studly and I arrived just in time for lunch. That’s his “new” ’72 Yamaha R5 in the photo.


For an appetizer we had the famous fried green tomatoes. So delicious!


The cafe isn’t large, so be prepared to wait for a table should you ever visit. Studly and I sat at the horseshoe shaped lunch counter. 

He had fried chicken and I ordered grilled catfish and a glass of sweet tea. Both meals were seasoned and cooked to perfection. The prices were reasonable as well.


I kept expecting Idgy and Ruth to come strolling in the door.


After lunch I wandered around main street for a bit, but I knew Studly was eager to get his purchase home to see if it would run. I did buy a brand new Brighton bag, retail price $145 that I bought for ten dollars before we started home to Doright Manor. That was my Towanda moment. Here’s Kathy Bates with hers:

https://youtu.be/lx0z9FjxP-Y

Peace, people!

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