if it is dangerous

Speed is a sensation not a mile per hour.

At 90-mph the motorcycle's resistance to aerodynamics is felt as pressure on my chest, diffused by a jacket. Earplugs mute the cry of an engine spinning in excess of 12-thousand RPM and the accompanying harmonic vibration is dampened by rubber soled shoes. The black and red cars flickering in my peripheral vision are muffled my blue-tinted glasses.

My senses are numb to the world and the hazards it presents but refusing to look at something doesn't make it unreal. Philosophy gives way to physics as erratic lane changes and strobing brake lights up ahead signal traffic coming to a standstill. I blip the throttle twice, downshifting to fourth and reacquaint myself with the power-band as I begin filtering through traffic.

The daily commute is boring but not without its hazards and, overtime, I break the cardinal sins of riding motorcycles: overestimating one's abilities and underestimating the hazards. Then again I couldn't live in Los Angeles without a motorcycle; idle in afternoon traffic. At least filtering is proactive even if it is dangerous.

minutes late

The motorcycle ran towards the outside of the four-lane sweeper and hit 90 mph when the motor finally gave out. "Damn it," I screamed into the helmet, thinking I ran out of gas. The bike surged to life allowing me to avoid a Toyota Camry and I attempt to ride the bike towards my exit; 1 1/4 miles away. "I just filled the tank 50 miles ago,” I reminded myself as all the electricals flashed and the bike shook violently before falling silent.

I kept giving the bike gas hoping to clear out the bike's throat and keep her running until my exit, all to no avail. Coasting at 75 mph, I decided to take an earlier exit and finally parked the bike on top of a curb. Removing the passenger seat exposed a broken lug on the positive battery's cable. I wedged the broken cable into the battery terminal in the hopes that it could last one more freeway exit. Taking an illegal left hand turn I reentered the highway and soon found out the bike wouldn’t last another exit.

Being gentle with the throttle, I merged into traffic; narrowly avoiding a truck speeding past when the electrics went out again. Coasting the bike through my off ramp's s-turns began and onto the curb on Hawthorne Blvd. I began pushing the bike to the nearest car audio store/mechanics-any place that would have some random tools. After 5 blocks I arrived at an AM PM gas station. Removing the seat I thought about the problem before going inside and asking if I could borrow some tools.

"What about a box knife," I ask. "Nope," he replied leaning back against a display of cigarettes. "I used this letter opener to open boxes.” "Alright, then let me borrow that," I say and he hands me the plastic letter opener with recessed razor blade. Outside I begin clawing at the heat shrink tubing around the lug until I expose some copper wire between the lug and the sheathing.

The lug is crimped too tight to be pulled off by hand and tighten around the battery terminal so I devise another plan to secure the cable to the terminal. Using the letter opener I cut the trickle charger-cord that is hardwired to the battery and began trimming away at the plastic until the wire is exposed. Wrapping the strand of wire in between the sheathing and lug, I twist the wire taut and return the letter opener. "Thanks, any tape?" I ask. He hands me a roll of making tape, which I grab to finish the job.

Tapping the whole thing together provided enough of a connection to allow the bike to run, at least on highway streets. “Rob, I had some motorcycle issues.” I said before mounting the bike and continuing to work. “I’ll be 15- minutes late.”

more viscous

U-turns and errant lane changes posed today's greatest risk during my commute and I was only 2-miles away from work in Torrance. Crenshaw Blvd's steep incline and camber-less 45 mph turns were met with a indifferent driver mid-u-turn around a sweeper with a barrier obscuring the road ahead. Light on the rear brake and heavy on the front brake allowed me to dance around the situation while avoiding a rear end slide and I continued my trajectory. Half a mile later and the driver of a grey sedan driver took a hard right from a perpendicular street and drifted three lanes wide so he could get in the left hand turn lane. I pulled ahead of him, turned around and made the international gesture for 'roll your windows down' by air cranking up tothe red light.

"You nearly hit me," I exclaimed.
"Sorry, Sorry," he replied.
"Not good enough.." I said as he sped off. Taking the back way through a housing track, I turned onto Pacific Coast Highway and continued west for another miles before a bus began to turn.

The bus driver coasted through a stop sign on an adjacent driveway in-front of my path of travel before deciding on the middle of three lanes. I veered to the outer lane, preparing myself for an upcoming right-hand turn. The bus driver decided to take the slow lane-change and began to drift into my lane; pitching me against the concrete curb. Staying on the gas I sped towards the closing aperture and ahead of the bus.

Miles later I was speeding through the uphill, positive cambered, decreasing radius turn onto the 405 freeway at a smart 45 mph. Miles later, putting along in the carpool lane heading northbound, a late-model Honda VFR passed me at a quick clip. I accelerated to watch as he filtered though upcoming traffic. He rode fast and jerky; as if he doubted his own control of the motorcycle.

I caught up to him, changed lane splitting lanes and proceeded to pass him. As traffic grew more viscous I got back over to his lane and began filtering through cars only to see him roar past in the emergency lane adjacent the fast lane. I watched as him black helmet and red bike shrank and melted into the pixalation of traffic ahead.