RideLust

The first motorcycle I rented in Chiang Mai in 2003.

I posted a bit about motorcycles a while back. I mentioned a crash. Here are the gory details:

Chiang Mai’s first ring road is clogged with cars, scooters, and delivery trucks. They sputter, wail, and gush smoke as they charge around the ancient city. I’m stranded in a one-lane exit, a link between clockwise and counterclockwise-flowing rivers of traffic—the first and second ring roads. They form a square around the old city where the fortified walls used to be. There’s a moat between them that once churned with fire-breathing Nagas. Now it’s just a murky green pool besieged by nothing more than noisy two-strokes and diesels. Read More…

BMW riders call the paint scheme the zebra

Nothing in my early motorcycle riding experience led me to believe I’d become a BMW guy. Their bikes of the time were slow and quirky; sure, they were comfortable, but who’d want to spend that kind of money to buy a bike that the German’s themselves labelled a “Gummikuh” (rubber cow)? I rode the occasional R100 or K100 borrowed from riding buddies, but neither kept my interest for long.

And then came the 1999 BMW R1100S. For me, it was love at first sight; I’d never seen a bike before that hit me in quite the same way. The lines were stunning, even if the body consisted of acres of plastic over a barely concealed frame. The motor was BMW’s traditional R version, a horizontally opposed twin, but now tweaked to produce 98 horsepower and cooled by both air and oil. It was beyond my budget at launch, but I anxiously monitored eBay until the prices came into reach. When they did, one test ride was all it took to convince me.

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In the future, I will fly to work suspended below a whirling, hissing disc of 600-degree Celsius steam. The Dragonfly SF1 rocket-copter has bullet-shaped rocket engines at the tips of its rotors that dissociate a mixture of 70 percent hydrogen peroxide into furious jets of water vapor. The thing splits the very air around it, spitting and screaming like some alien beast. It’s wicked. The Dragonfly can hit 115 miles per hour and reach an altitude of 13,000 feet. With an 18.5-gallon fuel tank, it can fly for 50 minutes at 40 mph. An add-on 16-gallon tank extends range to 100 miles. The whole thing only weighs 234 pounds and can carry 500 pounds. Amazingly, the rocket-copter experiences less vibration and is easier to fly than a conventional helicopter. The Dragonfly is currently being tested, but should be available for purchase in the near future. Expected cost? Can you really put a price on something this awesome?

Source: Swisscopter

Last summer, the air conditioner in my apartment died at the peak of a particularly torturous heat wave.  After one night of bizarre, sweaty dreams, I woke up feeling inexplicably, yet absolutely, convinced that I needed a new car.  I could taste the desire for something ludicrously fast, as if a speed demon had punched me in the face and my mouth was bleeding synthetic oil.  I had the sickening feeling that if I didn’t get this car soon, I would lose my mind.

What I needed had been ingrained into my brain as if from a holy edict.  The car could not be anything less than completely twisted.  The sort of sinister beast that would effortlessly manage 0-60 in a gasp and inspire in my passengers a psychiatrist’s delight of screamingly hideous nightmares.

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I’d like to preface this blog by saying that anyone who follows what I am about to say will have my full support. For those of you who don’t know, I am a New York native. I was born in lower Manhattan, grew up in Brooklyn and have lived all over the boroughs. Most people have preconceived notions about what it’s really like to live in and or around the big city, but in reality they have no idea. New York is a tough place, it wears you down and makes you hard. Living space is not measured in acreage here, it’s measured in square feet with a population density so tight that the borough of Queens could kick the shit out of the state of Rhode Island.

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Infants learn the rhythm and tone of their native language before they’re born. In fact, newborns from different countries have different cries. My mom brought me home in a 1970 Austin America. I can’t consciously remember it, but it burned an obsession with tiny, quirky hatchbacks into the synapses of my brain.

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My '06 MX-5 on a road trip to Barber Motorsports Park

“It’s a chick car. Driving a Miata is like humping another guy – it only feels good until someone sees you doing it.”

“They don’t go fast enough to be entertaining.”

“My Civic / Mazda 3 / Tiburon / Mustang / Dodge Caravan can kick your ass.”

“Aren’t you afraid of other cars?”

In the eight years that I’ve owned Miatas (1993 “B” Package from 1998 to 2002, 2006 Galaxy Gray Sport from 2006 to present), I’ve heard it all. Yes, I know that my Miata isn’t going to get me laid. Your Corvette probably doesn’t get you laid, either. Yes, I know it’s not going to beat a Mustang GT in the 1/4 mile. Yes, I know it’s smaller than most other cars on the market today (OK, ALL other cars on the market today), but none of that matters once you get the jones. I blame mine on Dustin Hoffman – that scene in The Graduate where he’s driving his Alfa Romeo Spider 1600 Duetto up the California coast at sunrise is simply epic:

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